


Changing States

by cakeisnotpie



Series: Clint and Phil White Collar AU [1]
Category: Marvel, Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), White Collar
Genre: Alternative Universe - FBI, Art thief, FBI agents, M/M, Pre-Slash, Slow Burn, Suit Porn, con man, white collar au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-28
Updated: 2014-08-12
Packaged: 2018-02-10 20:40:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 26,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2039352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cakeisnotpie/pseuds/cakeisnotpie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint Barton is the consummate con man and art thief. Phil Coulson is the FBI agent who finally caught him. Now Phil needs Clint's help to get to the bottom of a missing piece of Russian amber. But letting Clint out of jail, even with a tracking anklet and continual oversight, may just change Phil's life. </p><p>A White Collar AU, but you don't have to watch the show to follow the story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prison Blues

**Author's Note:**

> This started with a dream I had while mainlining the first four season of White Collar. The first four chapters are done; there's a total of six chapters. I'll post a new one every few days. Hope you enjoy!

**This fic was inspired by these pics:**

****

 

**PROLOGUE**

**FOUR YEARS AGO**

He knew before the doorknob finished turning in his palm what he’d find on the other side. Motes of dust sparkled in the one slanted column light casting a rectangle on the empty floor. Not even an open crate or tangle of packing straw was left. All gone, every one of the paintings, the shelves cleaned out. The printing equipment, the stash of paper, the ink … Barney had taken everything except for one long box. Clint didn’t have to open the lid to know what was inside. Worn, smooth wood, delicate carving along the curve, vines that danced intricately along the bow. 14th Century, attributed to Edward the III himself, the artifact was a message.

The outer door slammed open, and men with guns poured into the warehouse. They circled Clint as a man in a suit stepped through. The Suit. The Fed who’d been chasing him for the last two years, doggedly pursuing his every step, getting closer and closer.

“Clinton Francis Barton,” he said. “I’m Special Agent Philip Coulson with the White Collar Division. You’re under arrest for forgery.”

There was nowhere to run; Clint never should have come, but he had allowed himself to hope that his brother really had meant to meet him here, to run and start over, just the two of them. Like old times.

“Nice job, Phil.” Clint held his wrists out, calm and cool on the outside. “Looks like you finally caught your man.”

**TODAY**

“Coulson!”

Phil looked up from the dark sludge in his cup that really couldn’t be called coffee but still brought him the caffeine he craved.  Director Nick Fury stood on the balcony above the bullpen, his trademark black leather jacket open over his black dress shirt and red striped tie. Fury had risen through the ranks of the Federal Bureau of Investigation because he had the best closure rate in the New York division; he did things his way and he gave his agents leeway as long as they got the job done.

“Yeah, boss?” Phil scooped up the stack of files he’d taken home the night before and jogged up the steps. “What’s up?”

“Conference room. Hill and Rogers too,” Fury jerked his head at the other two agents. A petite brunette in a trim grey suit picked up a legal pad off her neat desk; next to her, a young blonde tried to brush a coffee ring off of the manila folder he’d left his cup on. They followed Phil into the glass walled room, taking their usual places at the oblong table. Fury stood at the head, passing out folders to everyone and keeping the clicker in one hand.

“Yesterday afternoon, the Carter Gallery began setting up for their next exhibition,” Fury began.

“Lost Nazi Treasures of St. Petersburg,” Phil supplied. “Funded by the Maria Stark Foundation. Sharon Carter talked the Russian Government into lending various artworks that were stolen by the Third Reich from St. Petersburg museums. They have recovered some from private collections …” Phil used air quotes around that phrase “… and others have been returned as small lots are discovered.”

“This,” Fury put the image on the screen, “is the prize of the show.”

A rectangular carved relief, about the size of a Kleenex box, in varying shades of gold and yellow and brown depicted an urn with curling ribbons. Phil sat up straight in his chair, elbows on the table, leaning forward.

“A piece of the Amber Room?” That was something Phil never thought he’d see.

“Amber?” Rogers asked.

“The Prussian King gave Tsar Peter the Great a cabinet made entirely of amber carved in exquisite detail; it was expanded to include the walls of a whole room in the Catherine Palace in the 18h century,” Phil explained. “It’s considered one of the great treasures of Russia.”

“Pieces of the Amber Room have been suckering in collectors for years,” Maria scoffed.  “None of it has ever been recovered. It was so fragile it crumbled into dust when the Russians tried to remove it to save it from the Nazis. Odds are it was destroyed in transit.”

“This piece has been authenticated by Lloyds of London,” Fury said. “And the curator of the State Hermitage Museum in St. Petersburg.”

“If that’s the sole surviving piece,” Steve said, “how could anyone put a price on it?” He was the newest member of the team, having moved up from D.C. just last year. An ex-army officer, Steve was also an artist himself, and he had a good eye for fakes.

“Whatever a collector will pay.” One thing Phil had learned during his time chasing down art thieves and forgers; there were people who were more than willing to throw money at even a questionable piece if it meant having something unique to brag about.

“The piece was insured for over 12 million,” Fury clicked and the photo changed. An open case appeared, lined with red velvet, an empty rectangular indention, sitting in the middle of a worktable.

“Stolen?” Phil sat up straighter in his chair. “When?”

“That’s the question of the hour. It  was in the box when it was loaded onto the plane in Russia; they double-checked and verified everything at customs. Yesterday, Sharon Carter herself accompanied the security team to pick up the whole lot; from the second the crate left customs, she had eyes on it until they opened it in their own vault,” Fury explained.

“Any stops on the flight?” Maria asked, flipping through the information before her.

“A charter flight, non-stop. Two Russian government agents, a security team, and the curator of the museum oversaw the loading. The agents and security members were onboard the plane the entire time. They watched it go straight into the secure customs locker here.” Fury put up another picture. “As you can see, the crate had four separate seals, none of which were tampered with.”

“Like a locked room mystery?” Steve said. ”How did it disappear from a locked case.”

“It’s not impossible,” Phil said. “But there are only two people who could pull this off. We know the Black Widow is in Kiev; the Walters Museum has loaned out some of the Oblia collection, including [a pair of bracelets](http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Greek_-_Bracelets_from_the_Olbia_Treasure_-_Walters_57375,_57376_-_Group.jpg) that she’s had her eye on for years.”

“The Russian angle is right up her alley,” Maria argued. “Treasures of the Mother Land and all.”

“It’s the exact opposite. She’s been tracking down stolen items for years and selling them to Russian collectors who donate them to museums.” Phil shook his head. “The amber has been returned; she wouldn’t go for it over the Oblia bracers.”

“If this is the point where you bring up your boy wonder, may I remind you, Clint Barton is behind bars and you’re the reason he’s off the market.” Fury glowered at Phil, but it didn’t bother him. He knew Nick was more bluster than bite.

“Just noting who could do it.” Phil tapped the end of his pen against his folder. “That means we’re looking for someone brand new who can pull off a vanishing act.”

“Clint Barton?” Steve hadn’t been around long enough to know about Phil’s biggest capture..

“Phil’s obsession.” Maria bit her lip to stop from grinning. “If there’s an impossible crime, it’s always attributed to Hawkeye, the world’s greatest thief. Story goes that he’s never missed once he’s got a target in his sights, isn’t that right Phil? The Sultan’s Jade Elephant? Barton did it. The lost Renoir? Hawkeye has it in his secret stash. Henry VIII’s missing codpiece?”

“That was an absentminded curator and you know it,” Phil cut in. He could feel the flush rising up his cheeks, damn it. He wasn’t that bad; when you’d made someone the center of a large part of your career, it was normal to know a lot about them. That’s good detective work. “If you’re done, maybe we can get back to the case at hand? The obvious suspect is Sharon Carter. The weakest link is the time the amber was at the gallery; an inside job there would be the easiest to pull off.”

“Indeed,” Fury agreed. “That’s why Rogers here is going to stakeout Ms. Carter; I want to know everything about her, where she buys her milk, what she feeds her cat, what cable company she uses. Pull all her records – phones, bank accounts – and look for patterns.”

Steve jotted a list of notes as Fury spoke.

“You know short hand?” Maria said, looking over his shoulder. “Bet you were a boy scout, weren’t you?”

“Didn’t have a troop growing up in Brooklyn, sorry,” Steve shot back; Phil was glad to see the newbie get in the game. Rogers had a sterling record so far; one of the reasons Fury had recruited him was his ability to see through the shit and find the thread of truth. That would be very useful dealing with con artists.

“At least I’ll be able to read his reports,” Fury injected. “Compared to your chicken scratch, Hill. Which is why you’re off to trace the crate’s path backwards. Check everyone who came within a hundred feet of it. I’ll call Customs and get you cleared for the warehouse.”

“I’ll head to the Gallery, let Carter walk me through the scene. Maybe I’ll catch something.” Phil started his own list, questions to ask, data to gather. He knew his strengths – he was a detail man, bringing together scattered bits and making them make sense.

“Later. First you’re going to take a quick trip out to the prison.” The side of Fury’s mouth curled up in a smile. “See if Barton knows who could pull this off and how they did it.”

“Sir?” Phil blinked in surprise. “You really think Barton’s going to talk to the agent who put him in that orange jumpsuit?”

“Oh, yes.” Fury was smug. “I’ll bet you a chili dog from the truck that he agrees to help you.”

* * *

 

“You got a visitor,” Roger nodded to the man sitting at the metal picnic table. The visiting lounge was a big room with the same concrete floors and block walls as the rest of the minimum security facility. The walls were a light blue in an effort to brighten the place up, as if a coat of paint would make people forget this was a prison. Still, there were no barriers, no plexiglass and one way mirrors. The people incarcerated here were all white collar criminals, bond traders and business men and accountants. In a strange way, Clint had learned a lot in the four years he’d been here; the contacts alone almost made it worth it. Almost. The rough cotton jump suits and thin mattresses on iron cots were getting old.

“Thanks, man.” Clint was always friendly with the guards; catch more flies with honey, Madge had said, and she’d been right. Compliments and good manners went a long way with most people; the rest, well, it never hurt to be able to back up the attitude with action.

He didn’t hesitate when the man turned and Clint recognized the Suit; years of training kept the easy smile on his face, had him reaching out a hand without pause even as he wondered why, after all this time, Phil Coulson was here. Truth be told, he’d half-expected the Fed to show up before now, wanting to talk about all of Clint’s alleged crimes. He’d certainly asked enough questions during the long interrogations after Clint’s arrest, his interest plain. But Clint had seen neither hide nor hair of Coulson or anyone from the Bureau.

Didn’t stop Clint from following the Suit’s other cases; nice thing about a country club prison was the unlimited access to the internet and reading material. In fact, learning was encouraged; when Warden Donaldson had found out Clint only had a GED, he’d pushed Clint to start taking college classes. As long as Clint avoided Art History, he had unlimited choices of online programs. He read four newspapers every morning, visited a number of aggregate sites for headlines, and was working his way through all the psychology textbooks at the moment. Last visit from the accreditation board, the Warden had used Clint as a model of rehabilitation; Clint’s gift for being so accommodating was a very fine pinot noir that he shared with Orson, ex-CEO of a fortune 500 company who owned an extensive family collection of artwork that needed cataloging. 

The key was to have no pattern; search histories could be uncovered no matter how well hidden on the shared computers. So he went old fashioned, reading actual paper copies of the _New York Times_ cover to cover. That’s how he kept up with the exploits of rising star Phil Coulson. Clint’s first impression had been proven correct; Coulson thought outside the box.

“Barton.” Coulson stood and offered his hand; his grip was firm, hand smooth, fingers with gun callouses.

“Coulson.” Clint motioned to the seat and swung a leg over, sitting down on the green metal bench. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

The time had been good to Coulson; he’d lost a little more hair, but his suit was nicer than the one he’d worn at the trial. Still straight off the rack, which was a damn shame given Coulson’s trim body and obvious muscles, but he was a Fed after all.  More confident in the way he held himself, the man’s success was written in his posture.

In way of an answer, Coulson slid a folder across the table. Clint flipped it open; his eyebrows rose at the photo on top. With a whistle, he turned the image, picking it up. “Sole surviving piece of the Amber Room, the holy grail of missing Russian art, looted by the Nazis during the war. Popped up for sale in 1972, disappeared again when the Russians got close. Ended up in the hands of an avid collector, a member of the Saudi royal family. Returned to Russia in … 2011? 2012? … it’s not really clear given the sketchy providence papers that had to be clarified before the announcement could be made.”

“By clarified, I assume you mean forged?” Phil interrupted with an amused glint in his blue eyes. Yeah, Clint remembered those eyes.

“You think the Russian government would fake documents to get one of its national treasures back?” Clint put his hand on his chest, but he was grinning. “I’m shocked. I meant no such thing.”

“I think they’d do just about anything to recover this,” Coulson said. “But that’s not the point.”

He pulled another picture out of the stack and put it on top. The empty space was jarring, and Clint understood. “Where and how?” he asked.

“Sometime between when it was put in the crate by the curator in St. Petersburg and when it was opened at the gallery here in New York.” Coulson sat back and waited. Clint knew that strategy, give him room to talk, maybe give something away. Thing was, Coulson was good, but Clint was better at this game. He perused the rest of the file, humming and sighing at what he read, taking his time. Then he folded it shut and slid it back.

“Damn shame. That’s a fantastic piece of history,” was all he said.

Coulson waited a heartbeat then sat back, tucking the file back in his briefcase. “You’re not going to help, are you? What is it? Professional courtesy? Jealousy?”

That hurt. Besides, Clint was sure that if he’d stolen it, no one would know. He let his hurt show then spread his hands as he shrugged. “Prisoner, in case you’ve forgotten. Not much I can do from here.”

“Oh, no, not going to happen.” Coulson stood up; the move put his belt at Clint’s eye level. Just to rile the fed, Clint let his eyes roam upwards slowly over the button-down white dress shirt, noting what he’d thought were dots were actually tiny little starship Enterprises. So Coulson was a fan boy; Clint filed that fact away for future use. By the time Clint got to the blue eyes, the humor was back in them. “I can see what I can do about privileges … maybe that Iconography course they turned you down for?”

A real smile slipped across Clint’s face; Coulson was keeping close tabs on him if he knew that. “The librarian kindly ordered me the textbook; I think I can manage on my own.”

“Let me see what I can do,” Coulson said, checking his phone as it vibrated in his pocket. “As you can imagine, this is a very time sensitive situation.”

Inclining his head in agreement, Clint used silence as his counter offer. He waited as Coulson turned, walked across the room, timing his reply perfectly. “Phil,” he called. Coulson paused, turned. “Did you check the packing material? The velvet and the high density impact foam? “

With that parting shot, Clint stood and left the room.

* * *

 

“Damn it.” Fury slammed his hand down on the conference table. “Why didn’t we notice that before?”

“It’s just trace elements; odds are it will breakdown over time and then we’d have nothing at all.” Phil was still amazed by what they’d found in the foam packing.

“So, basically, the amber melted away sometime in transit?” Maria bent over the material spread out on the table. “It was a fake all along? But that doesn’t make sense. If the Russians knew it wasn’t …”

“It was the real thing.” A new voice joined the conversation. Phil looked up to see a young man standing in the doorway, his longish brown hair pulled back in a ponytail, black leather jacket covering a snug black turtleneck  and worn black jeans. “James Buchanan. I work for Red Star security.”

“Ah, yes,” Phil walked around the table. “The firm who oversaw the shipment. Thanks for coming so quickly.”

“You sure the piece that went in the case was the original?” Fury stared down Buchanan; he stared back. Phil wondered for a second if either of them was going to crack, then Nick huffed and went back to reading the report.

“I can assure you that from the second that box was placed in the crate at the airport, no one touched it or tampered with it.” Buchanan had a stack of papers of his own to add to the piles accumulating. “We stand by our work, Agent Fury. No one got to the amber during our watch.”

“But you can’t say for sure that what was in the box was the authentic item?” Phil jumped on that omission. Buchanan gave a tight smile.

“I personally watched Michale Cherchenko put something that looked like the amber in the box and lock it. Previously, I saw only photos of the piece,” he admitted.

“So, what, you think a fake, good enough to convince the curator who authenticated it was put on the plane?” Fury turned to Phil.

“Maybe,” Phil shrugged. An idea was slowly forming, but there were too many missing pieces for a viable theory.

“So someone stole it, put a fake in its place and it was accidentally destroyed during transit? How?” Maria asked.

“I don’t know,” Phil admitted. “But I know someone who probably does.”

* * *

 

“Okay.” Agent Coulson said. “Here’s the offer. You wear the tracking anklet at all times and stay within a two mile radius of the office. You help us with the case and we’ll put in a good word for you with the parole board.”

Clint was only half-listening. For the first time in a long time, he was going to step out of these walls and be part of the world again. There was a room full of rare artwork to be examined. Something besides Salisbury steak for dinner on a Wednesday evening.  And maybe, just maybe, a reason to get up in the morning that didn’t involve hunting down his brother and wringing the truth from his lying mouth.

“Do you understand?” Coulson was asking.

“Find the amber. Lovely anklet. Two miles.” He gave Coulson a winning smile and saw the man blink in reply. “Any chance of getting Thai? I’ve really missed a good Pad Thai.”

“Oh, this is a bad idea,” Coulson muttered.

 


	2. Of Suits and suits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No way Clint's staying in a fleabitten downtown no-tel. Phil shouldn't be surprised when Clint makes other arrangements. And, of course, we have missing artworks plus very sexy fitted suits. And a fedora. :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's eerie in some ways how the Avengers slip so easily into White Collar characters. But it's really fun to watch them develop.
> 
> All the artists and paintings mentioned are real. The Nazis looted hundreds of pieces from museums in St. Petersburg; I've used some that have been recovered and others that are still lost. The Oblia treasure is also historical fact as is the Amber Room. 
> 
> The bits where Clint describes the artist's style ... that's all me. I made that part up.

“You expect me to live here?” 

Madge had always said that beggars couldn’t be choosers, but this fleabitten so-called hotel made Clint pause in the ragged entryway. The man behind the enclosed registration desk, complete with bulletproof glass and bars, turned his head to spit tobacco into a metal bowl.

“The department has a limited budget; most we could squeeze out was $250 per month. This is New York City.” Coulson seemed unfazed by the smell emanating from the far corner of the room where a lump of papers covered a sleeping man. “Carlos here keeps an eye on things, don’t worry.”

“At least the cell was clean,” Clint muttered. He knew the irony of that statement; there’d been years when even a place like this would have been welcome. Any bed with a roof was a luxury. Spoiled, that’s what he was, and he’d earned the right to be by hard work and a very quick hand.

“You find someplace better for the same price and you can take it,” Phil said off-handedly, too busy eyeing the two men who were passing something between their hands, half-hidden. “Here,” Coulson handed him a fifty dollar bill. “You can get some clothes. There’s a Salvation Army just around the corner.”  Wrinkling his nose, Clint pocketed the money. He’d find something to make do. “I’ve got to check in with Fury; meet me at the coffee shop two blocks over in an hour.”

“Wait, you’re just leaving me here? Aren’t you afraid I’ll run?” Clint couldn’t believe it.

“First, that lovely accessory means I know where you are at all times.” Phil turned his phone to where Clint could see the map and the glowing purple dot. “Second, you’ve got less than nine months left before you’re up for parole. Running now would jeopardize that. Nine months and you’re a free man. I think you want that.” Clint felt a shiver run down his spine at how well this man knew him. “Finally, do you think I’d really leave you alone?”

A quick glance out the window and Clint saw the Latino man, head covered by a stocking cap, eating a scoop of ice cream and leaning against an iron railing. “Ah, so you have eyes on me.”

Coulson actually laughed at that and Clint found he really liked that sound. “At all times, Barton. I’ll be watching you while you sleep.”

“That’s a little creepy, you know,” Clint shot back.

“Yep,” Coulson agreed.

He couldn’t stay in that rat trap so Clint strolled down the sidewalk, enjoying the pulse of the city around him, the people rushing by, the traffic starting and stopping. God, he’d missed this, the feeling of being alive, the lure of the next job, just a sense of tomorrow having promise instead of being more of the same. It only took two blocks before he was in a nicer section of town, God love New York. Four blocks and he found a vintage clothing store with suits in the window and a rack of hats by the door. The teenager at the counter barely glanced up from her paperback novel when he entered. The clothes were a mixture of the early 20th century and some more recent designers; a whole section was gently used ball gowns and cocktail dresses. Clint gravitated towards the suits, flicking through the hangers, looking for something not too threadbare that he could tailor to fit. He was bigger than he had been; fitness had always been important, but in prison it had become a social activity and way to pass time. Clint’s arms were bulkier, his chest broader, but his waist still trim.

“Oh, hi!” the salesgirl said, a little breathy and much more interested in the very well-dressed man who was carrying a handful of men’s clothes.

“Hey.” The man dumped the clothes on the counter. “I’ve got some more for you.”

One of the talents Clint needed to be successful was the ability to read people. Expensive suit but imperfect fit. Scuffed shoes, bulge at his shoulder, slight accent  -- the man wasn’t a rich man, but one’s body guard or servant. The smile he gave the sales girl meant he was a romantic at heart despite his obvious tough guy exterior. Bodyguard then.

“Wow, that’s a Saville Row, isn’t it?” Clint stepped over and fingered the material of a suit coat. “Worsted wool, fine stitching. It’s a beauty, almost a work of art.” He waited for the man to glance over then held out his hand. “Clint, Clint Barton.”

“Happy,” the man said. “Happy Hogan.”

“1940s, right?” Clint asked.

“Huh? Oh, the suit? Yeah. Belonged to Mr. Stark, the old one, not the young one. Tony’s cleaning out; going to take a long time. Man was a clothes horse,” Happy supplied.

“There’s more like these?” Clint did some quick calculations. With his $50 he could probably talk himself into two maybe three of these babies. Just the thought of wearing something this nice again made his toes curl in anticipation. He couldn’t wait for Coulson to see him show up in a thousand dollar suit.

“I’ve got a whole room full of these if you want. Take them off my hands and you can have them,” Tony Stark said from the doorway. Everyone knew Tony Stark and Clint read _The Times_ society page, so he even knew who Tony was rumored to be sleeping with at the moment (two models, his secretary and a New York Ranger) as well as Tony’s net worth, thanks to the feature last week in the Wall Street Journal.

“Wish I could.” Clint made a quick decision and flashed his anklet. “Kind of on a tight leash here. Can’t go far.”

He could see Stark calculating before he spoke. “An ex-con with a taste for vintage suits?”

“I like the finer things,” Clint said, affecting a careless tone. “Art, music, wine, clothes … what can I say?”

“My place is around the corner. Is that in your zone o’ freedom?” Stark’s smile was wide; he tipped his head down and looked at Clint over the top of his sunglasses. “And could you be sure and tell everyone you’re just out of the pen? I want them to know I’m a charitable guy.”

“Actually, I need a place to stay but I only have a $250 dollar budget,” Clint threw out because, in for a penny, in for a pound. “I clean up nice and make sparkling cocktail conversation as an added benefit.”

“You going to steal from the people at boring fundraisers and endless parties?” Stark asked.

“Reformed.” Clint shook his head sadly. “You know, did my time, going to be a productive citizen, etc.”

“Too bad. But the rest makes up for it.” Stark abruptly stuck out his hand. “Tony.”

“Clint.” Clint said as they shook.

“I think, Clint, this is the start of a beautiful friendship bound to piss off the Stark Industries board.”

* * *

 

Clint tipped the barista, giving her a winning smile as he left the ten in the jar.  She jotted something on the side of the cup before passing it over -- her number and a little heart. Nice to know he still had it, that his charm hadn’t grown stale. The espresso was hot on his tongue, a burst of flavor; sitting it down on a small table, he settled into a chair on the sidewalk, stretching his legs and tilting the felt fedora back on his head.

“Barton?” Coulson stood and stared down at him, hands on his hips. “Where did you find that?”

Tugging his dark blue sleeves down – the cuffs needed to be a tiny bit tighter to stay in place, but the mother-of-pearl cufflinks were just right. “Vintage store just a couple blocks over. You haven’t checked in with Sitwell yet have you?” Clint slid the second cup over and nodded to the opposite chair. “Jasper will probably give you a blow-by-blow of my every move. Did you know he collects tie pins?”

With a sigh, Coulson sat down and absently picked up the cup. “I suppose I should worry about drinking this in case you’ve poisoned it or something, but you’re having too much fun, aren’t you?” He took a long drink. His eyes drifted closed and he paused as the caffeine kicked in. “I should have known you’d land on your feet.”

They sipped in silence for a few minutes. Clint people watched, eyes tracking different types who crossed in front of them, an old habit.

“It’s not Sharon Carter,” Clint said.

“Agreed.” Coulson sighed again, his shoulders lifting and falling. “I don’t see Cherchencko either. His reputation is unimpeachable and he’s worked his whole life on reclaiming the treasure. Why steal the amber?”

“You’re looking at this all wrong, you know.” Clint glanced over and saw Coulson’s eyes intent on him. “See the woman there with the baby in the stroller trying to cross the street? She’s a distraction. People are watching her; between her short skirt, the baby’s fussing, and the crazy drivers, they don’t know what’s going to happen.”

“Women can wear anything they want nowadays, you know,” Coulson deadpanned. For a second Clint thought he was serious, then a small smile appeared. “But yes, I see what you mean. A good pickpocket could have four or five wallets without anyone knowing before the light changed.”

“Exactly. Distractions are to draw your eyes away from where the real action is. Unless, of course, that’s where you want them to be looking in the first place.” Clint took his hat off and dropped it on the table, running his fingers through his hair. Coulson’s eyes followed the movement.

“The thief wants us to know the amber is gone?” Coulson thought about it for a moment. “No, he wants us to know the amber was a fake.”

Good God, but the man was smart as a whip. No wonder Coulson caught him. “And now that you know the Amber was a fake, what happens next?”

“Shit.” Coulson thumbed his phone on and punched in a number. “Get us a cab. We’re going to the gallery.”

* * *

 

“I’m sorry, Ms. Carter isn’t here right now.” The man was walking backwards, staying in front of Coulson as they made their way through the main gallery space. Young and inexperienced, William really didn’t have a chance of stopping Phil.

“She’s been notified and will be meeting us. While we wait, my associate can be examining the artwork that has already been opened.” When Phil made up his mind, he usually got what he wanted. Right now, he needed to know if there were any more forgeries among the works sent as part of the exhibit.

“I’m not supposed to …” William paused; his phone was vibrating. Glancing down, he read the text that appeared. “Oh, Sharon said it was okay. She’ll be here in less than fifteen.”

He led them through a back passageway, stopping to swipe badge at a security pad then enter a password before taking them into a room with crates and tables, some easels set up to hold paintings. Phil watched as Barton noted all the security features, every camera along the way; he was sure the thief was mentally calculating the best way to break in. Barton’s intelligence was one of the things Coulson admired about him; creative ways of approaching a heist made Barton unpredictable and catching him such a challenge.

Because Phil was looking at Barton, he saw the man’s blue grey eyes widen at the sight of the painting reclining in one corner. Slowly, Barton removed his hat and sat it on a work table, his other hand stroking the stubble on his chin. Exhaling, he tilted his head and studied the watercolor, hands slipping into his pockets. His face softened, a quiet settled over him as he traced the brush strokes with his eyes, taking it all in like a thirsty man. Phil found he couldn’t take his own gaze off Barton’s face; the look of reverence and awe making Barton look years younger.

“ _Portrait of Petyr Basin_ ,” Barton said, talking as much to the painting as to the others in the room. “By Orest Kiprensky. Basin was one of the great portrait painters himself, but this particular painting was one of Kiprensky’s best portraits. Look at the brush strokes here … left to right and slightly heavier at the end rather than the beginning, part of his unique style. The pigments look right … we’d need to test them for metal content and other specific contaminants from the area … the clay around St. Petersburg has very specific markers. The canvas looks to be the correct weave …” he leaned over to see the edge and behind the painting “… and there’s indication of reuse which fits with the time period. It’s amazing, isn’t it?”

“Yes it is,” Phil agreed and he wasn’t sure if he was talking about the painting or the ease with which Barton read the canvas. “But is it the real thing?”

“Without the proper tests, I can’t tell for sure,” Barton hedged, stepping back. “But, yeah, it is. There’s something about the light Kiprensky used, diffuse and still sharp on the edges. This one, however, isn’t.” He turned to the much larger canvas to his right.  “ _Blind Poor People at a Market in Ukraine_ , one of the missing Russian masterpieces by Vladimir Makovsky. A good effort, I’ll give the painter that, but the brush strokes are too even – brushes then were handmade and the bristles always uneven on the ends. And the red has just a hair too much cyan – easy to get now but more rare then. But the giveaway is the faces of the people. Makovsky had a wicked sense of humor and used his paintings to poke fun at the aristocracy and the way they viewed the poor. See the lady’s expression? It should be haughty and full of disdain; the forger didn’t capture that.”

“A forgery?” William’s voice squeaked. “Are you saying this isn’t the real painting?”

“I’m saying we’re going to check every single piece in this collection,” Phil told the clerk.  “What’s next?”

“ _Turbulent Seas_ by Ivan Aivazovsky.” Barton nodded to another painting. “And I think we have a second one.”

* * *

 

“How many?” Fury’s voice was loud enough for Clint to hear without eavesdropping. The Fed was beyond angry at the outcome of the evening’s work. They’d gotten through two-thirds of the manifest and had found fourteen suspect works out of twenty six. Coulson’s face had gotten more and more stoic as Clint pulled one painting after the next, but he’d never once second guessed Clint’s opinion.

With each new forgery, a sense of anger kindled in Clint; if there was one thing he hated, it was poor quality work. Art was art; even a forgery of a masterpiece could be elevated to something beyond paint on a canvas. But this painter was a hack and a half; there’s no way these could have passed under the watchful eye of the authenticator unless the man was in on it. Oh, sure, to the ordinary eye, no one would know the difference, but a specialist is Russian Romantic movement? No way.

“Rogers is dropping the samples off at the lab before he calls it quits for the night. Sharon Carter is being very helpful; she’s going to stay until everything is out of the crates so we can get started bright and early in the morning on the rest.” Coulson barely noticed when Clint directed him to turn left instead of right, taking him into a driveway with a large ornate wrought iron gate blocking the way. “Yes sir. I know, sir. Barnes has also asked to check the paintings himself. Yes. I’ll make sure someone’s with him. Yes. 8 a.m. sharp.” When Coulson hung up the phone, he looked around and realized where they were. “Don’t want anyone to see you go into the hotel?”

“Actually,” Clint rolled down his window and waved at the security camera. The big gates began to slide aside. “You did say if I found somewhere else for the same money …”

“Here? How the hell did you manage this?” He drove up the circular driveway and parked at the front door. “Is this Stark Mansion?”

“Yes,” Clint replied, opening the door. A firm hand wrapped around his bicep and stopped him. It was the first time Coulson had intentionally touched him. “Come in and see the place for yourself. Tony won’t mind.”

“Since when are you on a first name basis with Tony Stark?” Coulson asked, his eyes flashing and face gone hard. “Damn it, Barton, if you’re connected to Stark that jeopardizes the whole investigation. These are all pieces purchased with money from the Maria Stark Foundation.”

“Like Tony knows anything about it?” Clint shrugged off the problem and got out of the car. “He doesn’t concern himself with anything to do with his parents, Stark Industries or any of the foundations. His P.A., Pepper Potts is the one who can get us in to talk to the right person about the collection. Want me to ask?”

Coulson followed him up the steps and into the big doors that led to a wide entry hall. “That’s not the point. Any hint of impropriety and you are right back in prison,” Coulson hissed as they crossed the buffed parquet flooring. “And living with Tony Stark? That’s a pretty big conflict of interest.”

“Good evening, Mr. Barton,” a voice said. “Mr. Stark wished me to remind you a new set of keys coded to your biometrics will arrive in the morning. Will you be needing another for your friend as well?”

“Thanks, Jarvis, but Agent Coulson will only be visiting. Say hi, Coulson.” Clint grinned as he headed for the ornate wooden staircase, enjoying the look of surprise on the Fed’s face.

“Um, hello?”  Coulson looked around, standing still.

“Good evening Agent Coulson. I am Jarvis, Mr. Stark’s butler. If you don’t mind, I will run a voice print analysis and save your pattern into my database for the future.”

Clint had read about the eccentric Tony Stark and his penchant for robots and computers. Jarvis was a program that Stark had created to run his household and his security. Ingenious, really. The automated intelligence made breaking into the mansion that much more difficult. An irony, then, that Tony had let a known thief have the keys to the whole house.

“Well, you did come back.” The man himself wandered out of a side hallway, a glass tumbler filled with brown liquid in his hand. “Thought I might have dreamed you up. Who’s your friend?”

“Tony Stark, Special Agent Phil Coulson, FBI.” Clint clattered back down the stairs to introduce the two men. “Coulson, Tony Stark.”

“A G-man! Two for one deal. I invite a conman to live with me and get a Fed in the bargain!” Stark crowed. “What brings you to my doorstep this evening? Are you Clint’s keeper? Or are you here to help him ‘re-acclimate’ to the outside.” Stark wiggled his eyebrows and Coulson blushed. Clint bit back a smile at Coulson’s discomfort; this was a side benefit of living with Stark he hadn’t foreseen.

“Actually, I’m consulting on a case. You know anything about the art collection of the Maria Stark Foundation?” Coulson elbowed him in the side and grimaced as Clint explained..

“Oh, hell no. Art’s Pepper’s thing. And that foundation is run by a woman who scares me, Emma Frost. I avoid her if at all possible. Ice lady, that’s what she is.” Stark shook his head at the thought.

“Meaning she refused to sleep with you?” Clint asked. Stark flashed him a toothy grin to let him know he hit the nail on the head.

“Bingo!” Stark laughed. “Do I need to alert Pep to something big coming our way? She’s always yelling at me to keep her up-to-date when I do anything stupid especially when alcohol’s involved.”

“If you would, we’d like to talk to her and Ms. Frost about art the Foundation has acquired.” Coulson might not like Clint’s methods, but he jumped in and followed his lead.. “Tomorrow will be fine.”

“Sure. I’ll just … JARVIS! Get Pepper on the line will you? Or better yet, can you put an appointment on her calendar and note to have Frosty there too?” Tony had no problem shouting, aiming his request towards the ceiling. “Hey, would you like a drink? Or are you on duty there, deputy?”

“No, thank you, Mr. Stark.” Coulson half-turned towards Clint. “I just need to verify Barton’s living situation to see that it meets the terms of his work release.”

“Right,” Stark said, starting up the stairs with them. His phone rang, the familiar strains of AC/DC, and he glanced at the screen before he ignored it. “Don’t worry about Barton; lots of room in this drafty old place. Hell, even I’m not here most of the time.”

“Sir, Ms. Potts is attempting to contact you.” Jarvis interrupted. “She is very insistent.”

“Tell her I’m …” Stark’s phone rang again and he sighed. “Fine. She’ll just keep calling if I don’t answer. Worse than a drill sergeant, I swear.” Words aside, he had a fond smile on his face as he tapped the screen and began talking. “Pep, hey, you’ll never guess who I’m talking to! An FBI guy and a thief. Seriously. You’re not going to believe the story …”

“Come on up,” Clint said. “See the place.”

Coulson’s face brooked no argument; he stood his ground and arched an eyebrow at Clint. “In the one hour you were out of my sight, you made friends with the richest man in New York City AND talked him into letting you live in his mansion practically rent free? A mansion, which I’m sure is a coincidence, is filled with famous artwork and treasures?”

“So, there I was, in a used clothing store, when in walks a load of vintage Chanel and Saville Row suits.” Clint jogged up the flight, sure that Coulson would follow him if he wanted answers. “It’s a mutually beneficial situation; I get a place to stay that’s free of vermin and blood splatter and Tony gets to annoy his  keepers when he trots me out at parties. Hey, what better way to know what’s happening in the art world than an inside man?”

“How do you do it?” Coulson was asking as they rounded the landing and headed up to the next floor. “Get people to trust you so easily?”

Clint had lots of answers to that question, most of them glib lies that would elicit a laugh or a sympathetic smile. He prided himself on knowing which one to use; a shadowy version of Clint’s real childhood would work on Coulson, give him a logical reason Clint had turned to this life. But, for once, Clint didn’t want to sell a fabrication of himself. “Innate talent,” he answered instead. “It’s a mixture of reading people, understanding how their minds work, and giving them what they want the most.”

“And they do anything you ask? Give you a room, new suits, money, art?” Coulson sounded doubtful. Lawful to his core, that was Clint’s read on the agent. Play the game by the rules and you get ahead; Clint knew that wasn’t always true.

“People want to believe in something, Coulson. The big score, a magic pill, true love … I just figure out what that is.” Clint came to the last floor and walked over to a door; the knob turned in his hand. “Justification is a powerful force; amazing what you ignore when desire gets involved.”

Even though he’d seen the room earlier, Clint was even more impressed by the night view. A basic L shape, the apartment was one big room. On the wall of the larger portion of the room was a small but complete kitchen, full-sized refrigerator, a long counter with sink and cooktop, more cabinets hanging above with glass doors.  To his right was a small living area and, beyond, a queen-sized sleigh bed filled the shorter rectangle of the base of the L. But what dominated the space were the floor-to-ceiling windows that made up the inner walls; the balcony outside gave way to the glittering lights of the city spread out like a banquet, tall buildings spearing upwards, looming over the smaller ones. Above, a small patch of stars twinkled.

“Wow.” Coulson moved through the sliding glass panel. “Now, that’s a view.”

“Beats the walls of the next cell block, that’s for sure.” Clint stood and stared at the sight, breathing in the smells of the city, so familiar; he’d missed this sense of freedom.

“Okay, we’ll try this, but the first inkling that you’re playing loose and fast ...” Coulson began.

“I’m back in. Yeah. This is a reason to stay on the straight and narrow.” Clint nodded to the lights. “Best incentive I can think of.”

“Don’t try to con me,” Coulson said with a half-smile on his face. “I know you’re going to try and find Barney. He’s your kryptonite.”

Clint couldn’t help but blink, freezing for just a second at the mention of the name. To most people, the hesitation would go unnoticed, but Coulson had studied Clint for years and he saw it. “Prison can change a man, no matter a nice a package it’s wrapped up in. I learned my lesson.”

Coulson turned and looked at him. “Listen, Barton, I know your file inside and out. You’re a con man, a thief, but you’re not a bad guy. You go out of your way to avoid hurting anyone and you pick your targets from those who can afford to lose. You’re not your brother; this is your chance to get free of all the baggage. Work with me … us … and maybe we can get your sentence shortened.  You can start paying back some of those debts you have in your ledger.”

Clint kept his eyes straight ahead; Coulson thought he knew, but he didn’t understand completely. Facts and interviews didn’t tell the whole story. “Let me do what I do best, Phil, and I think we have a deal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come on, you know Tony would invite a classy art thief to move in with him just to piss off the SI board. For the purposes of this fic, Tony is still the playboy who lets Obadiah Stane run the company. Pepper is his long suffering assistant. 
> 
> For those of you keeping track, that means Phil is Peter Burke, Clint is Neal Caffrey, Fury is Director Hughes, Maria is Diana Barrigan, Steve is Clinton Jones, and Tony is June. Bucky is an OC, but loosely based upon Sarah Ellis.


	3. New Artists

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys meet Pepper Potts and Emma Frost ... and Clint gets to paint again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The artwork hanging in Phil's house and the one in Tony's office are pieces done by people I know. I had to put them in the story as a nod to my very talented family and friends. The rest are famous painters and, one day, those two will be famous too. :))))
> 
> The explanation for the missing Amber is MacGyvered ... it's scientifically sound, but, yeah, I doubt it could happen in real life. I made it up, so blame me.

Phil’s phone rang as he was gulping down his first cup of coffee of the day, fresh from the pot. He refused to drink straight from the carafe even if he lived alone. A man had to draw the line somewhere. Eating standing over the sink was okay, but not drinking from a carton or a pot.

“Coulson,” he answered as he swigged again to get his brain flowing.

“Barton’s outside of his radius,” Hill said in way of greeting. “We’re tracking him and it looks like …”

Someone rapped on the front door; poking his head around the corner, Phil saw the outline of a man with a hat on the other side of the frosted window pane.

“He’s here,” Phil told Maria. Walking down the hall, he opened the door to find Barton lounging against his metal bannister. “I’ve got eyes on him.”

“Well tell him I haven’t had my coffee yet, and I’m very likely to bite when I see him.” She hung up the phone just as Barton sauntered into Phil’s living room. This morning, Barton was wearing a grey flannel three piece with a slim black fedora. How Barton went from prison orange to vintage designer suits in a day made Phil just a bit jealous.

“I brought you some Blue Mountain.” Barton offered up a still steaming cup. “Found a nice little place just a block from Stark’s that grinds it fresh every morning. One sugar and light cream.”

“You know how I take my coffee? What am I saying, of course you do. Eidetic memory.” Phil had admired that about Barton. A perfect recollection of the smallest details. “You left the two mile radius.”

“Isn’t your house included? I thought we could talk about the rest of the collection on the way in.” That was Barton’s innocent face which meant that Barton was testing the limits of just how far he could go.

“I don’t remember telling you where I lived,” Phil said.

“You told me to wait in the car when we stopped at the bank yesterday. Your registration’s in the glove compartment,” Barton explained, wandering into Phil’s IKEA decorated living room. He’d never really thought about what the do-it-yourself furniture said about him, but now he recognized that the overstuffed couch and white lacquer coffee table screamed ‘bachelor lives here.’

“Who painted this?” Clint stopped in front of the artwork over the small fireplace. A wash of blues, greys, and black, the abstract piece had a blast of red and orange in one corner; the motion of the heavy brush strokes, layers of thick paint, gave it a sense of life. “I don’t know the artist.”

“Actually, a friend did that.” Coulson had always liked the piece; it reminded him of a storm at sea. “She’s an art teacher down in Atlanta.”

“She’s got serious talent.” Barton cocked his head and looked at it from different angles. “Achieving the movement of the water and collapsing the terror with the beauty of the sublime into the swirls … it’s good.”

“It was always my favorite of her canvases. She let me pick what I wanted from her steamer trunk.”  Phil grabbed his keys off the hall table and took a sip of the coffee. It was mild without any bitterness and probably the best cup he’d ever had.

“Like it?” Barton asked with a grin. A very dangerous grin, Phil thought, because he could get used to seeing it.

“It’s okay,” he shrugged.  Rule one of dealing with Barton: never let him know when he got a direct hit.

* * *

 

“Bucky?” Steve Rogers stood as the security consultant came through the door. He engulfed Barnes with a big bear hug; James half-heartedly returned the gesture. “Man, it’s good to see you. What are you doing here? I lost track of you after Kandahar.”

With a quick glance around the room, Barnes put some distance between them as he answered. Rogers didn’t seem to notice. “Been about. Working security now. My company was hired to see the Amber and other things got here safely.”

“Gentlemen?” Fury asked, pausing just behind the two men; at his presence, everyone rushed to take a seat.

“Old friend?” Phil asked as Rogers sat down.

“We grew up together in Brooklyn,” Rogers grinned as he answered, clearly happy with the turn of events.

Barnes, on the other hand, took a seat on the opposite side of the table, glancing over at Barton as he sat down. “Barton,” he said, giving a curt nod.

“Barnes,” Barton returned with the same tone of voice.

“Now that old home week is over,” Fury said, holding each one of their eyes as he glared around the table.  “Can we get to business?”

Phil took that as his cue to pass out the updated information; he stepped to the head of the table and cleared his throat.  “Good morning,” he began. “I was hoping to have a final report on the metal shipping case but that hasn’t arrived yet, so let’s start with Mr. Barnes’ timeline for transit, shall we?” A series of dates and times appeared on the main screen. “As you can see, the piece was visually identified by Mr. Barnes on the ground in St. Petersburg; Chernenko opened the case prior to it being sealed and locked. That means that the real Amber was replaced earlier than three days ago. One of our goals is to determine who had access to it prior to the trip and any window for when the switch may have taken place. Once we can build a suspect list …”

“I’m sorry I’m late,” the man said, pausing in the doorway, a sheaf of papers in his hands. He pushed up his wire-rimmed glasses and absently brushed back some stray curls of brown hair. In his forties, he was slim and slightly rumpled. “Traffic uptown was terrible and the subway is a madhouse. I’m Dr. Banner from the forensics lab? With the results of your tests? You said you wanted them first thing this morning.”

“Yes, Dr. Banner, come in,” Fury pulled out an empty chair. “Lewis! Get the man a cup of coffee!”

“Oh, thank you, but that’s not necessary, I don’t drink …” Dr. Banner began, but Fury just kept talking over him.

“Is that your report? Pass those around, Hill, and let’s get moving.” Fury grimaced as their young intern came in with a steaming cup of black sludge that went by the name of coffee.  She glared back at the boss and flounced out, flipping her long brown hair as she did. They rarely kept interns from John Jay for a whole semester – something about Fury’s personality put them off – but Darcy had managed to not only make it fifteen weeks, but had come back again after Christmas break and it looked like she’d be moving into a paid position come July if she didn’t kill one of them first.

“Yes,” Dr. Banner’s voice grew more confident as he began to explain what was on the sheets they were studying. “It’s very interesting which is why I’m here. The residue in the foam was a colloid, a mixture of ammonium compound and carbohydrates.”

“English, Doc?” Hill asked, flipping through the pages. She was smart as a whip, but often asked the questions others wanted to but didn’t.

“Caramel coloring,” Barton supplied. “Just like in soda or candy.”

“Exactly!” Dr. Banner beamed at the other man. “Used in variations to color the replacement Amber. Very difficult to see on the black foam. Wouldn’t set off drug dogs because it’s a commonly occurring natural compound they smell all the time.”

“So someone dyed the fake Amber using caramel?” Rogers asked. “What material was the fake? And where did it go?”

“Well, we can’t tell that for sure,” Dr. Banner hesitated. “We do know that the case was pressurized and temperature controlled, but because we didn’t get to examine it before it was opened, we can’t tell you any more than that. It’s a mystery.”

“I can assure you that the case was properly calibrated during the trip,” James Barnes injected. “The LED readouts never changed and we checked every four hours.”

Phil watched as Barton kicked back in his seat, barely glancing at the data the forensic scientist had provided. “Okay, let’s hear it,” Phil said to him. “How did they do it?”

“Hypothetically, of course?” Barton asked, an excited grin on his face.

“Of course.” Phil couldn’t help but return the infectious smile, the thrill of the revelation getting to him too. From the corner of his eye, he noticed Maria roll her eyes.

“Occam’s Razor.” Barton tipped his hat back further on his head.

“The simplest answer is often the right one,” Phil answered. “So how can a solid piece of Amber, albeit a fake one, be there one minute and gone the next?”

“Put a solid under pressure and change the temperature …” Barton tossed back.

“Given the right criteria, it becomes a liquid or a …. gas.” Phil couldn’t believe it. “Of course. Simple and elegant with no clues left behind.”

“Okay, for those of us who don’t share a brain,” Hill said, “explain it to us.”

Phil realized the rest of the room was looking at the two of them. He cleared his throat, a slight flush rising up his neck. “Water. The fake was colored ice molded to look like the original. All it would take would be a rise in temperature and the right pressure to shift to gas.”

 “We all know the effect on your ears during takeoff and the cabin is pressurized. Not that difficult to jury rig the case and let nature take its course. An almost perfect crime; the water vapor dissipates when the box is opened,” Barton explained.

“The case did have a programmable temperature control as well,” Dr. Banner added. “Set it and the scenario is very possible. Theoretically.”

“You’re suggesting the curator put an ice sculpture in the case and left it to melt?” Rogers asked. “But why? He’d have to know there would be an investigation.”

“Whoever switched the Amber wanted to draw our attention,” Phil said. Barton gave him a slight nod of agreement. “So we’d notice the other fakes.”

“What?” Barnes sat straight up in his seat.

“How?” Maria asked.

“Wow,” Rogers said.

Phil clicked to the next slide and a list appeared. “Here are the pieces we suspect so far. We’ll be sending samples to the lab, Dr. Banner, to test authenticity.”

“Jesus.” Fury looked at the number of paintings. “The Russians are going to shit a brick if they’ve been taken this many times by forgers. We need to put a call in to the Embassy, talk to someone there. And we need to find out more about this curator.”

“I have an appointment at 10 a.m. to meet with Emma Frost, the head of the Maria Stark Foundation’s Acquisitions arm. She oversaw the reclamation of the pieces and worked with the Russians,” Phil informed them. “Rogers, I need you to check the rest of the artwork; Barton’s made a list of the most desirable pieces, so you can start there. Get Sharon Carter to help you.”

Steve’s cheeks reddened a bit as he took the list from Phil. “Of course,” he replied.

“I’ll go as well,” Barnes said. “I have the original manifest that includes the provenance. We can correlate where they came from and how they were acquired.”

“Good idea,” Phil nodded. If Barnes and Rogers worked together, they could cover more ground. “Maria, you contact the embassy and get the ball rolling there. We’ll need to talk to the curator.”

She nodded. “I know someone who speaks Russian in the Cybercrimes Division. If she’s free, it might be useful to have an ace up my sleeve. I’ll see about arranging a Skype interview.”

“We’ve got two questions to answer: who put the fake Amber in the case and who’s been replacing the paintings.” Steve was working through the details, sketching lines and circles on his pad of paper.

“Exactly,” Barton agreed. “The Amber was the work of a talented forger; the other paintings smack of quick need and a lack of any aesthetic.”

“Okay, people, that means double the workload, so get out there and get me some answers,” Fury said as he pushed back from the table.

“Barton,” Coulson called as the others started to leave the room. “Can you go give the provenance paperwork a once over? We’ve got forty-five minutes before we need to leave for our meeting.”

 “So, Bucky, how’s the security biz?” Clint asked as he crossed towards the two men. Phil made a note to ask later how they knew each other; he’d have to look up Barnes’ history when he had a chance.

Phil’s office was next to the conference room; he was the only other person besides Fury with a door even if it was part of a glass wall. That was one of the perks of being a Special Agent and Fury’s right hand; he got a walnut veneer pre-fab desk instead of the metal ones lined up in the bullpen and an executive faux leather chair. It was nice to be able to shut out the noise of the other agents at work; he could get through the mountain of paperwork faster without distractions like Maria Hill kicking her feet up and settling into one of the plastic visitor chairs.

“Yes?” He asked, knowing she wouldn’t leave until she’d said whatever was on her mind. He liked Maria; they worked well together and her no-nonsense type of approach was refreshing. She didn’t feel like she had to constantly prove herself because she was a woman; Maria simply believed she belonged here and didn’t give a damn if anyone else agreed with her.

“I’m worried about you, Phil.” She leaned back and fixed her dark eyes on him. “That little married couple conversation back there? You’re getting in over your head way too fast.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Phil protested. He did, of course. He and Barton were syncing up, their minds racing to the same conclusions, and Phil liked having someone who thought the same way he did.

“You blushed, Phil. Twice now in two days. He showed up at your house with gourmet coffee.” She nodded to the cup sitting on the coaster. “You let him move into Stark’s house. In deep, Phil. That’s where you’re going.”

“He’s a criminal, Maria. I know that. He charms people and steals things.” Phil kept repeating that to himself. “But he’s damn useful on this case. He knows a lot about the art world and has connections on the other side of the law. I’m using him. That’s all.”

“Right. Look me in the eye and tell me that suit and hat doesn’t do it for you. Promise me that you’re not giving him extra rope because he’s Clint fucking Barton, rope that he’ll use to hang you.” Maria got deadly serious. “I can understand the allure. He’s handsome, quick on his feet, almost as smart as you. But he’s going to scam us all in the end, Phil. It’s his nature. A scorpion stings, that’s what it does.”

“I’m wearing my Kevlar vest, okay? I’ll be fine.” Phil intentionally began to move papers around on his desk as he sat down, trying to end the conversation.

“Phil. Please. Let me set you up with this guy I know. Just your type. Works with vets returning from active duty, helping them acclimate back into society. Funny and has biceps to drool over. Hell, if Rogers weren’t part of the team, I’d be pushing him your way. Go out, get laid, have a relationship. Get a life out of this office.” Maria stood and laid a hand on Phil’s forearm. “I mean it, Phil. You’re one of the best men I know. Don’t get drawn into Barton’s sphere of influence. He’ll take you down with him.”

“Thanks, but no thanks on the date. I mean, he’s probably a nice guy, but you know how difficult it is to have any semblance of a life in our line of work.” He patted her hand and eased it back her way. “I’m a big boy who has a bunch of stolen artwork to track down.”

“Have it your way. But I reserve the right to say I told you so when the time comes,” she said as her parting shot.

Thing was, Phil was pretty damn sure she was right about one thing. He needed to find someone to spend time with outside of this job. Lean Cuisine and take-out Chinese for one were getting really old.

* * *

 

“You know, a good tailor will take care of that pull for you?” Clint watched the way Coulson’s jacket rose as he lifted his arms to settle the shoulder holster more securely. “Most places have free tailoring these days unless you went to one of those chain stores in the local malls … oh, you did, didn’t you? Men’s Wearhouse?”

Coulson hit the lock on the sensible American four door sedan he drove. “Unlike other people, I live within my means and federal agents don’t make that kind of money.”

“Seriously, I know some shops that aren’t that much more expensive, maybe 10%, where you can get a nice worsted two piece that will fit better and last a lot longer. I’ll give you the names of a couple …” Clint saw the look Coulson shot him and changed the subject. “So, what do you want to accomplish in this interview? Are we doing good cop/bad cop?”

That got a smile back on Coulson’s face. “ _We_ aren’t doing anything. I need you to tell me if we’re being fed a line of bull or not. Frost has a reputation as being a tough nut to crack; Potts is very well-respected but the rumor is she takes no shit. Watch and tell me what your read on them is when we’re done.”

“Can do, boss.” Clint smiled, one designed to put Coulson at ease. “Can’t wait to see the master in action.”

“Okay, about that.” Coulson stopped just outside the revolving glass doors of Stark Industries.  “We’re working together and I’d appreciate if you’d kept things professional. I’m the Agent-in-Charge and need you to act accordingly, so no flirting.”

“Ah, someone mentioned the whole mental sympathico thing. I understand,” Clint nodded. He was still waiting for a shovel speech from one of Coulson’s co-workers about not fucking up Coulson’s career. The respect they had for him was obvious from the way they all followed his directions without hesitation. Being leery of Clint’s influence was to be expected. Hell, even he didn’t trust himself not to mess up Coulson’s perfect career. “I’ll keep the telepathy to a minimum.”

“Glad we understand each other,” Coulson said. Clint grabbed his arm before he could move away.

“But,” he drew the word out, “when I’m flirting with you, you’ll damn well know it. This is just me being friendly. Seems there are things about me you don’t know yet, Phil.” 

He tipped his head and walked past Coulson into the ornate granite and steel lobby of the building, leaving Coulson to follow him inside. Waiting for them at the security desk was a strawberry blonde, her long hair pulled back in a silver clasp, wearing an expertly fitted Alexander McQueen pantsuit in chocolate brown.

“Agent Coulson? I’m Pepper Potts.” She held out her hand as they approached, shaking Coulson’s first. “And you must be Clint Barton.”

Her grip was firm and dry, just the right amount of pressure, and it told Clint the world about her. “Ms. Potts, it’s a pleasure,” he replied, turning her hand and brushing a kiss across her knuckles. He meant it seriously; this was a woman whose respect he wanted to earn.

She arched one lovely eyebrow and tilted her head as she examined his face for signs of sarcasm. Finding none, she gave him a little nod. “Mr. Barton. Let me be perfectly clear. If you so much as breath the wrong way, I will have you out of Tony’s house so fast your ears will be ringing for three days, and you will never be welcomed into any museum in this town again. Do I make myself clear?”

“Indeed.” Clint let just a hint of his good humor show in his smile. “I would do the same in your place. Tony may use my name and history to his heart’s content, but I have no plans to make him a target. We are in complete agreement. And you can call me Clint.”

“Well, then, now that that’s settled, shall we? Emma is on her way from the airport and will be here shortly.” She led the way to a bank of elevators where one was just opening. Once inside, she pushed the button for a high floor. “I suspect you have some questions for me as well, Agent Coulson. We can take this time before Emma arrives. I assume you’ll wish to speak to her alone?”

“Yes, and please, call me Phil.” Coulson’s smile was open and honest; he liked the woman. “Actually, I’d love to use your knowledge of art as well. You’ve amassed quite a collection for Stark on your own.”

“Oh, thank you, but I buy what I like.” Pepper brushed off the compliment. “Tony would pick the gaudiest pieces just for shock value if left to his own devices. I just try to steer him in the right directions.”

“But you have an eye for the up-and-coming artists,” Coulson said. “Susan Phillips, the Wengars … you purchased some of their first works, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Luck, mostly. I do enjoy going to new shows and smaller galleries when I travel. Susan and I met in Pittsburgh at a local artist co-op store; she was selling mostly pottery, her sculptures in the back of her barn. I saw one and had to go see the rest. There’s just something that speaks to me about the curves she introduces to such hard subjects.” Pepper’s face lit up as she talked, and Clint knew she was a fellow art lover who appreciated works for their emotional appeal not for what they cost.

The elevator slowed to a stop and the doors opened into a discretely decorated lobby, all muted greens and browns, a mix of modern and traditional that shouldn’t have worked but did. Pepper strode across the tiled floor, nodding to the receptionist.

“I thought it best we use Mr. Stark’s office. Neutral territory, as it were.” Pepper ushered them inside the large room that was achingly bland. A chrome and glass monster of a desk, two uncomfortable black leather chairs, a small sitting area with one of those couches that looked good but would be a pain to sit on. Only two things looked personalized beyond the basic designer template. The bar was filled with very expensive bottles of scotch and whiskey, the refrigerator larger than most offices. And the art was all individually picked pieces with a modern edge. A Jackson Pollack dominated the east wall, splatters of fire engine red and sparkling silver. On the opposite was a Miguel Barcelo, a spiral of textured paint. And behind them was a canvas filled with words on one side and flashes of red on the other. Clint turned, stepping back three paces, and studied the piece.

“You can see the dancers if you move,” Pepper explained. “The artist was inspired by a trip to Seville, Spain; flamenco dancers outside of the box if you will. I found this hanging in the restaurant in Portland where she was waitressing. Tony likes it because, as he says, it’s kinetically hyperactive like he is.”

“Tell me she’s painting full time now.” Clint hadn’t seen something so new or vibrant in a long time. “It would be a waste of talent if she’s not.”

“She had her first full show last month; sold four paintings on opening night. I imagine you’ll be hearing the name Beth Rush in the future.” Pepper smiled fondly at the memory. “Shall we gentleman? Emma’s plane has landed so we have limited time.”

“How much do you know about the Amber room in St. Petersburg?” Coulson asked. Pepper perched on the end of the couch before she answered.

“The Russian collection for Sharon’s gallery, right? I remember when the piece came up for purchase. Emma was very pleased to be the one who got the buy,” Pepper answered.

“You know Ms. Carter?” Coulson’s voice was light and easy, a man having a conversation not interrogating a suspect. Clint sat down in one of the chairs and enjoyed watching him work.

“Sharon and I are friends. We met when I purchased a Jose Parla from her gallery. We have similar tastes.” Pepper shifted her eyes between Coulson and Clint. “In fact, I was supposed to have drinks with her today but shecanceled. She’s not in any trouble, is she?”

“No, Ms. Carter is helping us in our investigation.” Coulson reeled her in and set her up for the news. “I’m afraid the Amber piece has been stolen.”

“Oh.” Pepper’s hand flew to her mouth and her eyes widened. True surprise was hard to fake; Ms. Potts hadn’t known. “That’s terrible. How? When? I should call Sharon. She’s got to be going crazy right now. The publicity will be horrible for the gallery. Oh, that sounds so selfish, but reputation is everything in the art world.”

“The piece was replaced with a fake before it left Russia, so Ms. Carter is in the clear,” Coulson explained. “I’m more interested in the Russian connection with the Stark Foundation and any light you or Ms. Frost can shine on the people involved.”

“Poor Michale. He’ll be devastated. The collection is his life work and he personally authenticated most of the pieces. Such a brilliant man who’s dedicated his energy to reclaiming lost culture.” Her fingers gripped her knee and she sighed. “He’ll be out of a job and ruined.”

“That would be Michale Chernenko, Curator of the Heritage museum?” Coulson pretended to look back through his notes, but Clint knew this was where they’d been heading the whole time. “He was the last person to see the piece before it was shipped.”

“Nice man. Very dry sense of humor and a hopeless wreck when it comes to women,” she gave a half-laugh, “but he literally wrote the book on the lost treasures. The BBC made a documentary based on it two years ago. His grandfather worked at one of the museums as a docent; Michale always tells the story of how he saved a Repin by carrying it out in his cart under an old tarp.”

A quick glance from Coulson, and Clint understood they were both on the same page. Chernenko was a patriot, a zealot – realizing some of the paintings had been replaced by fakes would have been an affront to his sensibilities.

“How did the Foundation get involved?” Coulson returned to his question.

“Oh, the Carbonell family had connections all over the world, and Maria’s related to the Malevich family through her mother’s side,” Pepper said. “Maria was an art lover and was actively involved during and after the war trying to save as much as possible.”

“As in Kazimir Malevich?”  That peaked Clint’s interest. “The father of suprematism?”

“A distant cousin.” Pepper’s phone buzzed and she checked the display. “Emma’s on her way up. She’ll prefer to meet you alone so if you have any more questions, you can contact me directly here.”

Coulson took the card she offered and tucked it into his inner jacket pocket. “Thank you so much for your time, Ms. Potts. You’ve been very helpful.”

“Pepper,” she corrected with a genuine smile. “I hope you find the Amber, Phil. I truly do.”

The outer office door opened before Coulson could reply; framed in the doorway was a beautiful woman, tall and slim, coiffed blonde hair and ice blue eyes. Clint recognized the white pantsuit with the butterfly lapels from John Paul Gaultier’s spring collection, the deep vee in the front revealing pale skin and curves of her breasts. Jimmy Choo stilettos completed her outfit, sparkling diamonds lining their straps. Cold. That’s the impression Clint got; the woman seemed to match her name.

“Pepper, darling, I thought Tony called this meeting,” Emma Frost drawled. Unspoken was her assertion that she wouldn’t have come if she knew it was Pepper waiting for her.

“He did.” Pepper stood and walked towards the door basically forcing Frost to either step into the room fully or give way into the hall. “But you know Tony. Something more important came up.” 

Frost’s eyes hardened at the implied slight. “I flew in from San Fran for this.”

“Ms. Frost.” Coulson stepped forward, drawing her attention away from Pepper. Standing, Clint flanked Coulson, providing a unified front.

Emma’s blue eyes scanned Coulson from the tips of his department store shoes to his receding hairline and promptly dismissed him. Then she turned to Clint for the same perusal. She took in his designer suit, the mother-of-pearl cufflinks, the pressed pleats in his pants and her gaze warmed as she shifted her hands from her hips and rolled her shoulders back in an unconscious gesture.

“Please forgive me,” she all but purred, focusing her remarks on Clint. “The Red Eye always makes me snappish until I’ve had a hit of good espresso. I’m Emma Frost, Director of Acquisitions and Collections.”

Frost was a type of woman Clint had experience with, a social climber who, if he had to bet, had crawled her way up by any means possible. Now that she thought Clint was a man of worth, she turned on the sex appeal and full wattage charm offensive.

“Clive Burton,” Clint replied. “Lovely to meet you Ms. Frost. Tony said you were just the woman to help us. I’m a bit of a collector, you know, dabbling here and there in things that catch my interest. I bought a painting a while back … in Poughkeepsie of all places … a Shishkin with a lovely mountainscape. But this gentleman says it’s stolen and belongs to the Russian government.” Clive was a useful identity; a rich playboy with a penchant for spending obscene amounts of money on a whim. Just the type of man Tony Stark would befriend. Add the fact he was young and seemingly inexperienced in the art world, Clive was a perfect bit of bait for Emma.

“Of course, Clive! I can call you Clive, can’t I? I’m Emma.” She didn’t so much as shake his hand as she caressed it. “Please sit down. Pepper, dear, could you ask Molly to bring us some coffee, the stronger the better. That wouldn’t be _Pine Trees Above the Gorge_ , would it? Lovely representation of Shishkin’s work while in Germany.”

Pepper’s face turned rock hard at her dismissal. “Tony doesn’t pay me enough for this,” she muttered as she turned and left.

“I think it was something like that,” Clint said. He stood, waiting for Emma to be seated; she strolled over and perched on the edge of the desk. “I just thought Mum would like it. She’s into landscapes and her family is related to the last Tsars, so anything Russian makes my present better than my brother’s. Agent Coulson here tells me that if I give the painting back, there might be some good publicity and I won’t got to jail. Mum will be very pleased with our name on a plaque as benefactors.”

“Well, the Maria Stark Foundation would love to facilitate the transfer. In fact, there’s a wonderful exhibit due to open in few weeks here in New York. We could make the Shishkin’s debut as part of the show and hit all the society papers. I’d need a quick look-see, you know, to verify which one it is, but we could make this happen.”

“Agent Coulson here has his own experts looking at it, don’t you?” Clint tossed the ball, hoping Coulson would pick it up and run with it.

“Indeed we do. The Bureau has a top-notch lab working on it as we speak.” Holding out his hand, Coulson continued speaking. “Special Agent Phil Coulson, White Collar division.”

“F.B.I.?” A bit of Frost’s warmth bled away.

“Yes, Ms. Carter called us in after Mr. Burton contacted her gallery about framing. She was thrilled by what she saw.” Coulson’s deadpan delivery was spot on; Clint was impressed. A tiny line appeared across Frost’s brow.

“Ah, how wonderful of her.” She flicked her eyes to Coulson and they grew hard as diamonds. By the time she turned back to Clint, she was all smiles. “So when can I see the Sishkin? The sooner we get started, the more likely you’ll be drinking champagne at the opening.”

“When did you say you’d have it back, Phil? Tomorrow?” Clint would need that long for this to work.

“Yes,” Coulson agreed. “I’m sure we could arrange for Ms. Frost to see the painting by late afternoon.”

* * *

 

“Nice plan, Clive.” Phil unlocked the door and got into the driver’s seat. “And how are we supposed to have a missing painting to show her tomorrow?”

“Give me a canvas, some paint and brushes, and I can have a reasonable facsimile by the morning. We don’t need to pass a close inspection, just a quick look. She won’t be able to resist; the real thing would sell for millions.” Clint slid into the passenger side. “If she is part of this, she won’t be able to resist checking on the rest of the paintings. If not, finding the Sishkin is a big check in her win column.”

“Oh, she’s in it alright. Right up to her very long neck,” Phil agreed. “She didn’t ask anything about provenances or documentation.” Everything about Emma Frost set off his warning bells; charming Clive Burton was part of a fundraiser’s job, but Phil had seen the flash of fear when he’d mentioned Sharon Carter’s name.

“As long as we’re stopping at an art store, know any good Greek places? I’m craving moussaka,” Clint asked. “Tony’s got some excellent Pinot Noir that would go really well with it.”

“I know a good hot dog cart,” Phil offered then laughed at Clint’s grimace. “Greek it is, then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Bruce is an OC. I figure a forensic scientist would be a good addition to the series, so I put him in that slot. Darcy's doing it for school credit (John Jay is a famous law school in New York) and that's a passing reference to Sam Wilson in case you're counting. 
> 
> The Clint/Bucky backstory is hinted at here. I'm thinking of this as a pilot episode of a tv show, so that's a plot to be explored later (along with why Bucky seems distant from Steve, Bruce's backstory, Pepper and Tony .... ). As I wrote this, it started spinning a lot of threads out for future ideas. Guess this is going to have a sequel or two at some point ... because I woke up this morning knowing who Alex Hunter would be and it will be a FABULOUS story on it's own.


	4. A Friend Indeed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A friend of Clint's appears and Phil's a little out-of-sorts.

Clint sipped his coffee, enjoying the heady aroma as he looked at the canvas. He’d started the layering and the landscape was coming together, but the shading needed work and the tree line wasn’t quite right. He’d worked through the night with only a couple of hours of sleep, wanting to get done in time for the paint to dry. As always, brushing the colors, swirling them together, feeling the wooden handle on his palm calmed him and let him think. Art was his retreat, had always been a place that re-energized him. There was a time when he thought he’d create his own moments of pleasure for others to share, but his journey had gone a different direction. Still, the odor of turpentine and the smudges on his fingers brought a kind of peace he found nowhere else.

The first rays of morning were slowly filtering in, lightening the night beyond the windows, the city revving up for the day. He heard the garbage trucks backing up, the growing number of honks of taxis. Soon, he’d need to take a shower and get dressed for the day … and he was surprised to find he was looking forward to it. The same rush from a good con knotted his stomach and the feel of success when he thought of unmasking the person responsible. Who knew that being on this side of the law was just as enticing?

A light knock on the door and then it swung open before he could do more than begin to turn. The red head let herself in, dropping her pack on the floor as she surveyed the room. Petite and dressed in dark jeans with a black turtleneck, she shut the door and smiled at him.

“So it’s true,” she said, her eyes taking in the view and the canvas on the easel. “You are out and working for the Suits.”

“Tasha!” Clint dropped his brush and wiped his hands with an oil cloth. “I thought you were in Kiev. The Oblia bracelets not pan out?”

“You know me better than that, misha.” Natasha Romanov crossed the room and let herself be caught up in Clint’s bear hug. “I heard the Amber was stolen and had to come see for myself.”

“I’m wounded. And here I thought you flew halfway around the world just to see me,” Clint teased. “I should have known.”

“You are a bonus,” she said. “Although had I known you were buttering up to Tony Stark, I’d have taken a non-stop flight.”

Released from his arms, she walked over to the canvas; hands on her hips, she gave it a critical once over. “Brush strokes are too heavy here and here. The paint is too oily; it will shine in the light. And the tree line needs work. This will not fool the Russians.”

“Ouch, jump right to the negatives, why don’t you?” Clint noted the dark circles under her eyes and the pale wash of exhaustion on her face. “It only has to withstand a quick look, not authentication. Hey, as long as you’re here, you want to take a glance at the provenance papers? I haven’t had the chance to go over them.”

“Just off the plane and you put me to work.” She nudged him with an elbow. “So what’s the game? You running a Hail Mary or are you willingly working for the Feds?”

“Someone’s been replacing paintings in the collection with forgeries. Way we figure it, Chernenko replaced the Amber to get our attention, make us notice the others,” Clint explained. “The Sishkin is bait.”

“Forgeries?” Natasha’s eyes flashed with anger. “It’s not Michale, I can tell you that much. If he switched the Amber, you can be sure the original is somewhere safely stored in all the right conditions. Man is anal retentive about what he considers _his_ collection.” She thought about it for a moment. “Which pieces are missing? I haven’t heard of any Russian art coming on the market except that damn egg which keeps getting sold to new owners every three to four years.”

And Natasha would know; she kept her ear to the ground for anything popping up on the black market with Slavic heritage. “That’s the question, isn’t it? If they were selling to the highest bidder …” Clint stopped, his brain running ahead of his mouth. “Maybe money isn’t the goal. What if they’re keeping it for themselves, a private collection?”

“Or trading them to someone else? Harder to track a painting than a wire transfer.” As always, Natasha’s answers were ways around technology; she tried to live off the grid to avoid scrutiny.

“Okay, so what is Emma Frost up to?” Clint mused out loud.

“Frost? You’re messing with Emma Frost? She’s a titanium bitch. Ran into her on a job last year; can’t prove anything but one of the other interested parties was fished out of the Seine.” Natasha stared at him. “She puts on a charming face, but beneath, she’s got a stone heart.”

“Yeah, I got that,” Clint admitted. “Met her yesterday.”

“And you pulled out Clive Burton, didn’t you? Bought a stolen painting by accident and want to return it to its rightful owners. Predictable, Barton.” She shook her head.

“She’s on the line, Nat. We’ve got men covering the gallery where the paintings are and we’re tapped into her phone to see who she contacts.”

“God, you sound just like a Suit. And you know how I feel about those guys.” Natasha had a deep seated allergy to anyone who worked for the law side of things. She was slow to trust and quick to believe the worst of governments and authorities.

“Well, I’m not in jail,” Clint shrugged and picked up the brush again. “And I’m watching the sunrise with a cup of coffee as I paint, so I’m going to count this one a win.”

She walked over to the kitchenette, opened doors until she found another mug and poured herself a cup from the half-full pot. “You’ll never convince anyone with that mix of brown.”

“Fine. You do it.” He offered her the brush and she grinned.  Taking it, she sat about creating a new color with bits of red and yellow to make orange and then adding tiny bits of blue.

“You need better lighting in here,” she complained as she worked. Dipping the brush in, she painted a quick stroke on Clint’s white t-shirt. “Too much red,” she said and put in another dab of blue.

“Hey, I’m on a consultant’s salary here,” he complained. “I only have a couple of these.”

She ignored him and picked up a palette knife. In a series of deft strokes, she added a tree line that looked exactly like the one in the picture on the laptop. “There. That should buy you at least five minutes before she notices your brushwork. I’m going to take a shower. I assume you have a bathroom in this hovel?”

“Through the door and down the hall past the closet,” he told her. She snagged a change of clothes from her pack before she left the room.

“That’s not a closet,” she called back. “Those suits have their own room.”

“What part of living in Stark Mansion did you miss?” He shot back. She snorted in reply. Clint suspected she would estimate the value of the room full of clothes before her shower, so he pulled his shirt off and went to the sink. With a clean palette knife, he scraped off as much of the paint as he could before he poured some isopropyl alcohol on the spot, working on it with a small sponge.

A knock sounded on his door. “Barton?” Coulson called. “I know it’s early, but Jarvis said you were up.”

Clint glanced at the clock: 6:52 a.m. Natasha’s pack was still on the floor; he took two strides and kicked it under the couch before he opened the door. “Up and at it early this morning?” he asked.

For a second, Coulson stood in the hall, his eyes flicking down and back up, and Clint remembered he was wearing nothing but a light pair of sleep pants. If Clint hadn’t been watching, he would have missed the quick breath and the way Coulson’s fingers tightened on the coffee cup in his hand.

“Frost has an early meeting, so we’re getting the van in place.” Coulson entered as soon as Clint stepped out of the way. “I wanted to see the progress you’ve made on … wow! You painted this last night?”

As Coulson wandered over to the easel, Clint spied Natasha’s coffee cup sitting on the counter, his own still on the table. “What do you think?” he asked to buy time, putting his body between Coulson and the kitchenette, taking advantage of the way Coulson was resolutely not looking at his bare chest. He turned, all casual, and slipped the mug under the edge of his t-shirt in the sink.

“It’s amazing. You’re very talented.” Coulson’s compliment was easy and sincere, and Clint felt it in his gut. “We’ll put it in the conference room with the drop lighting and she’ll think it’s the real thing.” He looked again. “I imagine if you had the time to do it right, we’d never know.”

“It would pass the authentication tests, too.” He was bragging, but Coulson already knew what Clint was capable of.

“I don’t doubt that.” Coulson smiled over his shoulder, keeping his gaze on Clint’s face. “When will you be ready?”

“Ready?” Clint leaned back against the counter, his hands clasping the curved edge.  “That’s too easy, Phil. Now if you mean the painting, it should be dry enough by two.”

“I’ll arrange a meeting for three; that will give us time to see who she contacts this morning.” Coulson ignored Clint’s jibe, but he took a sip of coffee before continuing. “When you’re finished, you can join us in the van. I’ll send you the location.”

“Now that sounds like fun,” Clint said.

“Oh, the newbie brings the doughnuts,” Coulson said as he headed for the door. “And, Barton? The Captain America shield is a nice touch.”

Clint laughed. “Beggars can’t be choosers, Coulson. I think Stark has a comic book fetish.”

With a smile on his face, Coulson left; Clint sighed. “Well?” he asked into the empty air.

“You like him.” Natasha’s head appeared as she leaned out from the hallway.

“He’s a suit,” Clint replied, knowing he couldn’t con her. “But he’s okay. I don’t trust him, but I like him.”

“No. You _like_ him.” She leaned against the jamb, arms crossed. “This could be a problem if you’re compromised. Never get involved, Clint. Remember what I taught you.”

“He has access to files, Nat. On Barney.”

Her smile was one of understanding then and it curled across her face, up into her eyes. “Vengeance. Now that I can get on board with.”

* * *

 

“You do know it smells in here, right?” Barton scrunched up his nose and made a face as he sat the pink pastry box down on top of a stack of papers. The back of the van was crowded with equipment and bodies.

“It’s Maria’s love of onions; we think there’s part of a Philly cheesesteak behind the computer bank.” Coulson scooted over to make room for Barton.

“It’s that damn potted ham you eat all the time. He gets it from a deli and smears it on wheat bread, like that will make it any healthier,” Hill argued. “I gave up cheesesteaks for Lent, remember. Haven’t had one in over a year.”

“Really? For Lent?” Rogers asked, his big shoulders wedged into the back corner, earphones covering one ear. “I thought Lent was about sacrifices.”

“Addiction comes in many forms.” Coulson sounded like a 12 step counselor. “Onions can be a problem for some.”

Hill glared at him. “Potted ham lingers, doesn’t it, Steve?”

“Hey, no, I don’t have a dog in this fight,” Rogers protested, hands up.

“He’s probably got one in his lunch bag right now,” Hill went on. “You’ll see.”  She shifted her gaze to the box Clint had brought. “Are those doughnuts?”

“Something new actually. Cronuts. A cross between croissants and doughnuts. Haven’t tried them yet …” Clint had to press back into the bank of equipment as both Hill and Rogers lunged for the box. Maria got the first one, Rogers scooping up two before hoarding them on his station.

“Watch your fingers if you want to keep them,” Coulson joked, snagging one for himself and taking a big bite. He closed his eyes and sighed, pleasure washing over his face. Clint swallowed a quick sip of his coffee.

“Okay, I guess that answers the question of how good are they.” Clint picked up one and tried it for himself. It was flaky and sweet. Dragging out a stool, he perched on it and watched the other three demolish the whole dozen as they listened to the wiretap they’d gotten a court order for overnight. Frost called her hair stylist, badgered her personal assistant, and made call after call to kiss rich people’s asses. About noon, Coulson took out a sandwich and Hill arched an eyebrow Clint’s way; the spread did have a distinct odor, but it wasn’t unpleasant, just prominent.

“Hey,” Rogers interrupted Hill and Coulson’s ongoing argument about the Knicks’ chances this year. “Got something.”

Over the speaker came Emma Frost’s voice. “… at three today. The Sishkin. Yes, I understand. It’s exactly what he needs. Conservative estimates put the value between $20 and 50 million. That should buy him six months at least.”

An unknown male voice replied. “And what about the others? Do they know yet?”

“The boy hasn’t left the gallery all night; that bitch has him working with her overtime to go through the shipment. I think he’s sleeping in a back room.” Frost sounded completely put out. “I can’t get to him, much less seduce the info out of him.”

“We need to assume it’s going to come out and prepare. As soon as you have the Sishkin, load it and bring it to the warehouse. Call our man to get started on the replacement.  I’ll let you know the meeting location as soon as it’s set.”

“I’m not going again, not after what happened at last time.” Frost’s voice was hard and determined. “It’s not safe for me. He should go. They’re getting tired of dealing with underlings anyway.”

“Don’t worry about it. Just deliver the painting and you can feign innocence about the rest.”

The line went dead.

“She’s trying to get to Sharon’s assistant,” Rogers said. “Damn it, Sharon might not be safe.”

“Sharon ...” Coulson paused and arched an eyebrow at Rogers, “… Ms. Carter has a protection detail already, so you don’t need to worry about her. Maria, trace that call and find out who’s on the other end of the line.”

“Burner phone,” Hill said with a shake of her head. “GPS is somewhere in the financial district.”

“But he’s in New York. We can work with that.” Coulson steepled his fingers and sat back in his chair, thinking.

“What did she mean about six months?” Rogers asked.

It clicked in Clint’s head, Natasha’s earlier comment and Frost’s conversation. “They’re using the paintings as payment. That’s why there’s no chatter about them coming on the market; they’re not selling them, they’re bartering them.”

“Someone who’s a collector, taking the paintings in return for a service,” Coulson nodded, light dawning in his eyes. “People who make Frost uncomfortable. Like Falkner back in 2006. Arms for art, remember?”

“Mesopotamian fertility icons,” Clint nodded. “Had a whole mansion full of them when he was captured.”

“Okay, so Frost finds a painting, the real one, arranges for it to go to Russia, then has someone replace it with a fake so she can trade it off for … what?” Maria puzzled out loud.

“Not her, _he_ ’s doing the buying. She’s the middle man, the broker.” Coulson sat back up. “We need to find out who she’s working for.”

“Follow the money. Forgers were hired, there’s a contact in Russia who handles the physical switch. Merchandise has to get moved. And she’s getting paid well,” Clint suggested.

“Rogers, pull her financials. Hill, when’s that meeting with the Russian envoy?” Coulson asked.

“12:30,” she confirmed.

“Barton, you’re with me,” Coulson stood. “We’ll take the embassy. If she makes any more calls of interest, let me know.” Hill nodded her agreement. “Let’s go see if we can find the inside man.”

* * *

 

 “You know, you could have told me you had a history with certain people in the Russian Embassy.”

Phil pulled the car into the underground parking of his office building and glared over at Barton in the passenger seat. Today he was wearing a blue gabardine double breast suit and a porkpie hat, the color highlighting his eyes.  But Phil was having a difficult time wiping off his eyelids the image of a pair of grey sleep pants and nothing else but skin every time he looked at the man. “The sapphire brooch. I knew you were involved, but couldn’t prove it.”

“I didn’t steal it,” Barton offered. “Scouts honest truth.”

“You were never a boy scout,” Phil replied. Barton had grown up in a series of foster homes before he and his brother ran off to start their lives of crime. “You were the distraction. Funny, isn’t it, how the provenance papers were suddenly revealed to be faked?”

“Sometimes the good guys get their day.” Barton smiled. “Nice old lady’s claim was right all along.”

He should be angrier – one of the most recognizable jewels from the last Tsar’s coronation collection had been snatched right out of the embassy’s state-of-the-art vault – but Phil had been a boy scout. The idea of a politically appointed hack cheating a woman out of a family legacy wasn’t right either. He could admire the very neat trap the Assistant Consulate had fallen into; watching the granddaughter of one of the palace servants get a windfall of millions almost made up for breaking the law to do it.

“At least we could have avoided some unpleasantness,” Phil said, not letting it go. “You’re going to have to warn me ahead of time if you’re likely to be recognized.”

Only with some fast talking by Barton and Phil’s insistence he wasn’t the same man had they avoided Barton being arrested on the spot. Instead, the diplomat who was supposed to be helping them sat in stony silence while they interviewed Dr. Michale Chernenko via a satellite feed. They learned virtually nothing; Chernenko pretended to not understand English well and Zygreb, the diplomat, only begrudgingly offered them the list compiled by the Russian police of people with access to the Amber.

“At least I got the translator’s name and number. I can ask about Frost and others who have visited the Embassy when we meet for drinks,” Barton said. He’d charmed the lovely woman who’d been brought in to help with the interview with just a few looks and a smile. He was good at that, too good, and Phil wondered just how much of Barton’s seeming willingness to help was nothing more than a show. “Honestly, it’s been years. I heard the people involved were recalled to Moscow so I didn’t expect anyone to remember me.”

Phil got out of the car and let the door slam shut harder than usual. He’d been on edge since they’d overheard the call by Frost, some detail niggling in his head. It frustrated him, not being able to put the pieces together when he thought some important piece was right in front of him.

“Chernenko was scared to talk.” Barton got in the elevator with Phil and leaned against the wall. “Zygreb kept reminding him his job was on the line. If we could get someone he trusted, knew wasn’t part of the government …”

“Wait. You speak Russian?” Phil turned on Barton. “Why didn’t you tell me that?”

“Just bits and pieces; I’m not fluent by any means, but I get by. I thought it best to keep that quiet. Katya did a good job of translating, but she tended to clean up Zygreb’s language.” Barton shrugged. “Look, we should ask Pepper Potts if she’d talk to Chernenko, commiserate over the loss, see what he knows. I can get Tony to …”

“No.” Phil pushed the elevator stop button and the car came to a halt. “That’s not how we work. We don’t use people like that. I thought you understood. We do this by the rules or we don’t do it at all.”

Barton, calm and collected, looked him up and down. “Fine, Phil. It was just a suggestion. I’m on a steep learning curve here, okay? If I do anything that makes you uncomfortable, just tell me.”

With a long sigh, Phil turned away from those blue-grey eyes that read way too much and started the elevator again. “I just can’t figure this out, damn it, and it’s all in plain sight.  I should have this case solved.”

“When I start a new job … project … I like to break it into parts, sections, literally write them out or make pictures to represent the steps. Then I can look at each one without being distracted by the others or the whole, and I can rearrange them, put them in different orders. Helps me see the finer details and anything I might have missed.” Barton waited for Phil to exit when the doors opened.

There wasn’t time to respond; Emma Frost was waiting in Fury’s office, smiling as the director scowled at her. Phil glanced at Maria and Steve, both of whom were working at their desks, heads down; Dr. Banner from the crime lab was sitting at the small break table, eyes intent on his newspaper. Darcy glared at Phil as she dumped a cup of coffee in the sink, sitting the porcelain down with a clink and a rattle of spoon.

“Agent Coulson!” Fury barked. “Conference room!”

The painting was set up on an easel with its back to the windows for the worst possible lighting. Even so, Frost oohed when she saw it, capturing Clint’s arm and walking him over to stand in front of it.

“Magnificent,” she murmured into Clint’s ear. “To think, soon the public will be able to see this again.”

“I trust you’ve seen the provenance paperwork and read the report from our lab,” Phil asked so Barton could stay in his role of spoiled rich boy.

“All seems in order. Of course, our own authenticator will have to issue his findings, but I’m very impressed. If I were you, Mr. Burton, I’d be thinking about what you want the plaque in the museum to say.” Phil would never have known she was planning on skipping town as soon as she could. “In fact, I’ve asked SI security to box the painting up for me and deliver it to our specialist. Whenever you decide to let us proceed, of course.”

The last was addressed to Phil. “The F. B. I. is satisfied to see the artwork go to the Foundation, Ms. Frost. As soon as the paperwork’s complete with Mr. Burton’s signature, you can take possession.”

“Excellent! I’ll just send a quick text and my men can be here within the hour.” She tapped on her phone, her manicured nails clicking on the glass. “I have all the forms with me. If you have a notary, we can see about returning this artifact to the rightful owner.”

In very short order, Barton signed over the fake rights to the fake painting as Phil watched.

“Perhaps we can discuss the exact wording over dinner, Emma.” Barton said as he wrote his name on the last line; he flashed Frost a double-wattage smile. “Your company will help soothe my jitters about Father finding out how much money I dropped on this thing.”

“Why, Clive, I’d love to,” she cooed back at him. “But unfortunately I have to contact the Russians and begin the arrangements if we want this painting in the showing. Perhaps tomorrow night?”

“Text me when and where.” Barton snatched her phone from her hands; she couldn’t protest, but the lines around her eyes tightened as he added his number to her contact list. As soon as he offered it back, she pocketed the device quickly.

“I look forward to it.” She tried for the same seductive tone, but a hint of her anxiety crept in around the edges. “Now, I’m sorry, but I must excuse myself. I can’t wait to call my Russian friends; it’s already late in St. Petersburg.”

“Well, she couldn’t get out of here fast enough,” Barton said as soon as the elevator doors were closed. “How much you want to bet the ‘security’ team is waiting downstairs right now?”

“Good thing we put a tracker on the painting. Here’s hoping she leads us right to her contact.” Phil looked over at Barton. “What was that with her phone?”

“Just messing with her. Clive would have fallen for her line, so I went with it.”

 “A fundraiser turning down a dinner date with wealthy man who buys art without checking?” Phil wished he could believe that was all it was, Barton having fun at the woman’s expense. But cell phones held all kinds of sensitive data these days.

“Not very subtle, our Emma,” Barton agreed. “Let’s go grab a coffee. I saw a new shop two blocks over that advertises Blue Mountain beans.”

That was the same smile Barton had used on the woman at the embassy, the one that got him whatever he wanted. Phil could go, but maybe it wasn’t the best idea. “I’ve got paperwork to finish, need to talk to Dr. Banner and check in with Rogers and Hill. There’s financials, phone records … a lot to go over.”

A bit of the good humor leeched out of Barton’s face. “Right. Working. I have a vague idea what that is. I’ll bring you a cup back.”

“Get Hill to go with you, she loves trying new places especially if you pay. That’s outside your radius.” Phil turned towards his office; he didn’t want to see Barton’s reaction to the reminder. “And when you call Katya, remember to stay within the circle for dinner. You should try Little Owl; knowing you, you won’t need a reservation.”

“Thanks,” Barton said, but he didn’t sound like he meant it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep, Natasha is Mozzie. Who else would be Clint's one true old friend? Plus, I can see Natasha being paranoid, leery of the feds, and a little odd. I've painted her as a bit of a Robin Hood figure here; there's so much room to get into Mozzie's strange theories and conspiracies later on. 
> 
> The translator Katya is a nod to my squishy, uuuhshiny. We're our own brotp. :))))


	5. A Book By Its Cover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cigars, fine scotch, and flirting? What more could you ask for but a little danger thrown in? Clint and Phil are getting too close to the truth.

The smell made Phil look up from the papers strewn across the conference table. Standing in the doorway with a big box, Barton smiled at the three federal agents hard at work.

“It’s late and I’m hungry.” He sauntered over and cleared a spot on top of the credenza.  “Amazing what you can get delivered in New York City. I do love this town.”

“Oh, God, food.” Maria’s stomach rumbled. “Almost makes me like you Barton. Almost.”

“Are those dumplings?” Phil asked as Barton began unpacking. They’d been working the last four hours straight, combing through pieces of information. Pepper Potts had been very helpful getting financial data for the foundation and now they were down to the nitty gritty of checking each number and line item for patterns.

“From Prosperity. Chive and pork, vegetable, dumpling soup, and sesame pancakes.” A thermos appeared along with some little plastic cups. “And hot green tea.”

It was clearly a peace offering, and Phil was a big enough man to know he’d been too short with Barton earlier. “I call dibs on the pork.” 

“What happened to your date with the Russian translator?” Steve asked as he snagged a plate and started filling it up. “I heard you talking to her on the phone earlier.”

“She had plans with friends to see _Book of Mormon_.” Barton opened up the tea and poured. “The Embassy keeps season tickets for visiting dignitaries and bigwigs; if they go unused, the employees can have them. I’m dying to see _Mormon_ and _Kinky Boots_ myself.”

The dumpling was crispy on the outside and soft seasoned meat on the inside; Phil sighed after he polished off the first one. “Neil Patrick Harris is doing _Hedwig_ ; Maria and I caught it last month.  But the new Mamet play wasn’t up to his usual standards.”

“ _If/Then_ is pretty good,” Steve offered. “I was thinking _A Gentleman’s Guide to Murder_ would be a decent date night.”

“For you and Sharon?” Maria teased, sipping her soup. Rogers blushed and pretended to be fascinated by his food. His interest in the blonde gallery owner hadn’t gone unnoticed.

“I’ll keep that in mind if Katya calls.” Barton drew a chair over and picked up a dumpling with his chopsticks. “The reports come back from the lab?”

“Don’t gloat,” Phil warned. Barton grinned, but he didn’t say anything. “All fakes. Banner says the canvases were reused; he’s working on identifying characteristics to see what more we can learn.”

“I’ve been thinking about that and I’ve got a couple of ideas. People who cut corners and would work for cheap.” Barton wrinkled his nose. “A bad forgery is like knock off clothing; falls apart first time you try and wear it. Gives the profession a bad name.”

“You take it seriously, don’t you?” Phil had always wondered; Barton was different than the common thief. Like a connoisseur, Barton truly respected beautiful things, a different caliber of criminal.

“It’s an art; a good con should be a gorgeous thing, smooth and easy. It’s not always about the money.” Barton replied. “I take pride in my work.”

“I saw the Tintoretto you painted. If the crate hadn’t dropped and broken the frame, it would be hanging in the Prado right now.” Phil took the last of the pork dumplings before Steve could, dipping them in the thick sauce. A drop of the brown liquid splashed on his blue striped tie. “Damn. This is the only one I have without a spot already.”

 “Press, don’t rub. Let it soak up the sauce.” Barton took a napkin and did just that, leaning over Phil, his face close. Warm breath drifted across Phil’s neck; he sat back, putting distance between the two of them. Maria arched an eyebrow his way.

“Hey,” he looked down; the spot was almost gone. “That worked.”

“Of course it did.” Barton smirked. “So, what’s next?”

“Well, we know she spends a shit ton of money on clothes, hair and her nails. She uses a car service to get around and is out-of-town for an average of two weeks a month. Most of her travel matches up with Stark Foundation offices or on-going projects. Eats out a lot … I bet she can’t cook … and has very expensive tastes in wine.” Maria slid a paper across the table. “Look at the bill from Sherry-Lehman.”

Barton whistled when he saw the six digits. “Well, she does wine and dine her clients well. Huh. That’s interesting.”

“Found something?” Phil leaned over to see what Barton was looking at.

“This entry … Bombay Gold? That’s the cigar room at the Union Club.” A series of charges appeared over the last few months, varying in cost but never under a hundred dollars. “They charge cigars purchased under a different name to avoid the taxes and laws. Like alcohol, cigars can’t be sold at the same establishment as food.”

“The Union Club?” Maria looked over. “That place is still men only. What’s Frost doing there?”

“Women do smoke cigars,” Steve said.  “A member could bring her as a guest, and she rubs elbows with the rich and powerful on a daily basis.”

“Only members are allowed to buy them, part of the rules,” Barton assured them.

“You know an awful lot of the club.” Maria challenged him. “Been in there, have you?”

Barton shrugged. “If you want to do business in New York, you’ve got to network.”

“I could go for a Monte Cristo.” Phil liked a cigar now and then with a glass of whiskey. Fury gave him an expensive one each year on Phil’s birthday, and they smoked them together.

“The No. 2 is exceptional,” Barton agreed.

“The point being,” Steve doggedly stuck to the topic, “Frost didn’t buy those cigars herself. Why use someone else’s credit to … oh. I get it.”

“Yes?” Phil encouraged him.

“My XO lives in town; we go out once a month, hoist a beer or two, get together with those of us who can. His wife has him on a strict diet; we all take turns paying for the wings and burgers so she doesn’t see that on the bill.”

“Someone powerful and rich enough to afford the membership dues hiding a cigar habit.” Maria tapped her chopsticks on her plate. “Who’s up for a visit to the bastion of male power?”

“The men there are not going to talk to the feds,” Barton said.

“You’ve got a membership, don’t you?” Phil asked. Of course Barton had an in at the most exclusive club in the city.

“Warren Worthington does,” Barton admitted. “So, how do you feel about a Cuban and a glass of Glen Livet?”

“I’ll suffer through it,” Phil replied.

* * *

 

“Good see you again, Mr. Worthington.”

The bartender sat a half-full tumbler down in front of both of them on the dark oaken surface, scarred with years of use but still polished until it gleamed.  Dark paneling lined the walls, comfortable wing chairs arranged in small groupings about tables with pewter ashtrays and matching cigar cutters. Wooden matches were supplied as well in little ceramic bins.

“You must be a good tipper if he remembers you after four years,” Coulson said as he took a sniff of his scotch. Just a sip, and Clint could see the man’s shoulders slump slightly.

“It’s his job to remember.”  The scotch was silky smooth going down his throat. “And I always tip well. There but for the grace of God and all.”

“What can I get you gentlemen?” The man stopped at their table with a box; wooden dividers separated the cigars. No names or prices; this wasn’t the kind of place to ask how much.

“I think I’ll take the Davidoff.” Clint picked up the Nicaragua and ran it under his nose. Earthy with notes of cedar, the scent reminded him of another cigar on a beach with a cabana and palm trees. He’d shared that one with his brother. “Phil?”

“Rocky Patel Royale.” Coulson didn’t hesitate. “Haven’t had one of these in a while. They get better with age.”

“Excellent choices,” the cigar sommelier said with a nod.  He cut their choices and offered a light.

“Is your wife still on her no smoking kick?” Clint asked Coulson. “I can put that on my tab if you need me to.”

“Yes, thanks.” Coulson took a drag on his cigar and blew a puff of smoke. “Damn woman’s going on about organic foods and wants to go vegan or whatever that is where you eat only foliage.”

Clint winked at the sommelier. “The banking industry trembles when you speak and you can’t have a cigar in peace.”

 “Behind every great man is a nagging woman,” Coulson said.  “I don’t need a Pepper Potts, I need an Emma Frost.”

“I hear Frost buys his cigars for him,” Clint agreed. “Which reminds me, do you have any Opus A? Last time I saw him, he was bragging about that damn cigar.”

“Ah, yes, Mr. Stane enjoys an Arturo Fuente. We have Opus A and Don Arturo.”

“Do you have a preference?” Clint turned his gaze to Coulson who kept his poker face on despite the name. “My treat. You can pocket it until after you close the deal tomorrow.”

“Never had an Opus A, so let’s try that one,” Coulson agreed. The sommelier nodded and left to retrieve their purchases. “Obadiah Stane. Head of Stark Industries.”

“Makes sense. He’s effectively her boss.” Clint sat back on his stool and blew a line of smoke. “Stane’s got a new trophy wife, an ex-zumba instructor who’s into health and fitness. He uses Frost’s credit, so SI is ultimately paying for it anyway.”

“Damn it, I’d hoped this lead would pan out.” With the cigar between his fingers, Coulson looked the most relaxed Clint had seen ever seen him despite the information they’d gained.

“Why not Stane?” Clint mused out loud. “Man’s the top of the food chain. He lives a pretty lavish lifestyle for a guy running his dead best friend’s company. Got a temper, I hear, and has no qualms about selling arms to those who can afford it.”

“Man might be an asshole, but he runs a multi-billion dollar corporation that makes weapons,” Coulson tossed back. Not arguing, just pulling strings in the theory. There was only one other person who could keep up with Clint’s thought process; it felt good to have another. “There are lots of board members, directors, and assistant directors who could be Frost’s partner in crime. She’s a con artist, after all. Not the best I’ve ever met, but pretty good.”

 “Give you a glass of scotch and you get all sassy, Coulson.” Clint swirled his drink and looked at Coulson through the smoke.

“Give me good scotch and an Arturto and I get downright jovial,” Coulson said, his eyes sparkling.

“Your cigars, sir.” The sommelier put two thin cases down in front of them.

“Put them on my tab,” Clint said. Worthington’s account was still active; he’d made sure to have a couple of fall back plans, places to run a credit line if he needed it. The club could absorb the cost of a few drinks and smokes.

“I should really get back to work,” Coulson said, but he made no move to get up. “But a good cigar should be savored, not rushed.”

“Amen,” Clint agreed.

They didn’t talk about the case, gossiping over Rogers’ crush on the gallery owner. Clint turned the conversation to Broadway shows and watched Coulson’s smile grow as he talked about seeing Brannagh’s _MacBeth_ and Denzel Washington in _Fences_.  They shared a love of Hudson Valley School but disagreed on modern surrealists. Coulson had a wicked sense of humor; he knew as many of the men in the room by reputation as Clint did and had a lot of stories about strange items he’d chased down over his years.  All too soon, they crushed out the stub of their cigars and left nothing but a few drops of scotch in their glasses. Clint realized he’d enjoyed the last hour; not once had he thought about which answer to give other than the truth.

Clint signed the bill while Coulson put on his jacket and pocketed the two cigars.

“Don’t think I didn’t see that,” Coulson said as they walked out the front door.

“Is it my fault they don’t clear out their membership rolls and shut down credit lines?” Clint shrugged as he jogged down the front steps; a taxi stood waiting at the curb. Night had fallen while they’d been inside.

“And if I check out Warren Worthington, what will I find?” Coulson asked.

Clint’s eyes were drawn to the motion of the car that came speeding around the corner, weaving in and out of the traffic. A flash of silver and Clint grabbed Coulson’s arm and spun them both down to the ground as the first bark of guns sounded. Whizzing over their bodies, the bullets spattered against the stone façade of the building, two shattering the glass of the front doors. The doorman dropped behind a half wall as the valet hid behind his stand.

With a bone-shaking thump, Clint landed on his right shoulder and felt the muscles wrench in the wrong direction. Pain lanced up his neck and down his arm as Coulson pushed him flat, covering Clint’s body with his own. Digging out his gun, Coulson caught his elbow on the side of Clint’s head. Bells didn’t ring, but the blow was sharp enough to make Clint’s vision go out of focus and his eyes to water.

“Call 911!” Coulson was yelling as he knelt and fired at the retreating car. “We’ve got a man down.”

Man down? Clint tried to put his weight on his hands; he shifted over to his left side and used his knees instead. No blood, just stabbing pain; his fingers tightened into a fist, but he couldn’t roll his shoulder without it catching with a loud pop.  Then he looked to his left and saw the cabbie slumped over his steering wheel, blood running down his cheek.

“Blue sedan, Chrysler, license plate R47S94. See what info you can get.” Coulson was talking into his cell phone as he leaned into the window to take the cabbie’s pulse. “I’m fine, we’re both fine. Barton saw them before they fired.”  For a second their eyes met over the yellow roof. 

Clint held his arm tight as the sirens started in the distance and grew closer. “He alive?”

“Just grazed, but I think he hit his head on the dashboard,” Coulson said as the first cruiser pulled to a stop. “Lucky, all of us.”

“At least we know we’re on the right track.” The full import of what could have happened hit him.  His line of work wasn’t the safest; he’d been in danger and at the wrong end of a gun before but that didn’t make his heart stop pounding so hard now. He’d never liked violence; brute force was more his brother’s answer to problems. 

“Damn stupid way to tip their hand,” Coulson practically growled as two policemen got out.

“Agent Coulson?” the first one, a young Latino, asked.

“So much for your cover,” Clint murmured.  Coulson straightened with an air of authority.

“We need to shut down the scene,” he replied. “Check on the doorman and the valet; I’ll take care of Mr. Worthington.”

Clint ended up on the stairs, sitting and watching as Coulson dispatched the cops to their jobs and coordinated with Hill when she arrived. In short order, they were the only ones left; Clint looked up at Coulson standing over him, those blue eyes taking in the way Clint was leaning slightly, head tilted to the side.

“You need to get that checked?” Coulson offered his left hand and helped him to his feet. Clint couldn’t hide the wince at his aching muscles. “We can stop at the emergency room.”

“Everything works,” Clint said, wiggling his fingers for Coulson’s benefits. He could lift his arm and even shrug, but it hurt. “It’s a strain or pull; nothing to do but take some muscle relaxants and put heat on it. If we stop by a drug store, I can grab a heating pad and some ibuprofen.”

Without an argument, Coulson hailed a cab; they got out a block from Stark’s house and swung into a CVS. Despite Clint’s arguments to the contrary, Coulson insisted on walking him all the way back to the mansion, following him up the stairs. Catalogingevery grunt and hiss of pain, Coulson opened the bag as soon as they were in Clint’s room and took out the tube of Tiger Balm.

“Off with it,” he ordered. “You’ll seize up if you don’t take care of that.”

Clint blinked, needing a second to understand what Coulson was saying. “You don’t have to …” he started to protest.

“My first major in college was athletic training; I know a bit about strains. There are a few tricks to release the tension.” He slipped out of his jacket, dropped it on the back of a kitchen chair and started rolling up his sleeves.  “Shoulders are tricky things. If you don’t get them straightened out, you’ll throw your neck and spine out of line, even end up with hip and knee pain.”

Easing off his suit jacket was harder than Clint expected; the tiny spasms ran all the way down to his fingers when he tried to roll his arm back. Coulson stepped in without a word and loosened his tie so Clint could pull it over his head with his left hand. Unbuttoning his shirt was tricky, but he managed, shrugging out of the left sleeve and letting the right slide down to his wrist. Turning a chair around, Coulson waved him to sit down and rest his arms on the top rung of the ladder back.

The room warmed as Clint watched their reflections in the glass, the darkness outside making the wall a mirror. He consciously controlled his breathing, tamping down on his involuntary response as Coulson rubbed the cream on his hands before stepping up behind.  It had been a long time since Clint had taken his clothes off for anyone. After the intake process when Clint had arrived at prison, there had actually been a modicum of privacy when it came to undressing and showering. Still, Clint hadn’t had a desire to find a fuck buddy despite the offers; he might prefer men, but a jailhouse hook up wasn’t his idea of a relationship. He could handle his needs himself, even if it meant a four and a half year dry spell.

“Roll your shoulder backwards for me. Stop when it hurts.” Coulson’s face was turned down, studying the play of the muscles as Clint complied.  They both heard the pop and Clint gave a little groan. “Okay, I’m going to start with the trapezius and focus on the deltoid; they’re the strongest and mostly likely candidates considering the impact you took as you went down. Let me know when you hit your pain threshold. This will likely be uncomfortable.”

Strong fingers began to work in long strokes, light at first, then deeper into the muscle.  At first, it didn’t hurt, just felt really good to have another human’s touch soothing away the tension. Then Coulson hit the first knot, and Clint hissed out loud, hunching forward to protect the injured area.

“Yeah, you did a number of it.” Coulson sounded too damn cheery as he dug a knuckle in the little pocket of tightness.  “This is just the start, I bet.”

“You don’t have to be so damn happy about it,” Clint groused, turning his head to look at Coulson. That caused a stab of pain, and he bit his lip.

“Well, considering you saved my life, this is the least I could do,” Coulson returned.  “Now don’t move unless I tell you to.”

There was something arousing about that statement; Clint tucked it away into the quiet little place in his chest where he kept all his emotions. The situation was far too intimate as it was; last thing Clint needed was to start thinking about hands on other parts of his anatomy, and a strong voice telling him what to do.  Fingers stroking, slick and easy, circling …

“Ow!” Clint jumped as Coulson hit a tender place just on the edge of the scapula. Backing away from that area, Coulson went back to softer touches.

“A pull in the tereus major.” He worked his way back to the place for another set of deep pushes at the kink then circled outward again. “If we get that stretched out, you’ll be thankful in the morning.”

“Seriously, you took a couple classes in college, and you’re a professional massage therapist now? You, Phil Coulson, are a man of many talents,” Clint joked.

“I played soccer,” Coulson confessed. “Had a lot of strains and sore muscles; most of them we dealt with ourselves.”

“Goalie, right?” Clint could picture it, a younger Coulson on guard in his shorts and striped shirt.

“MVP for two years running,” Coulson said with a smile. 

Clint couldn’t stop the groan that followed as Coulson pressed harder; Clint could swear he felt a snap when the knot dissolved. “Oh, God, okay, that was good.”

And just like that, Clint was half hard, his eyes drifting closed as he gave into the sensation. A mix of pain and release, it slipped into his head and made thinking a little more difficult. Coulson coughed, his fingers skidding along Clint’s skin; he stopped, added more cream, and went back to work.

“Lift your elbow,” he said. Clint did; the motion pulled but didn’t hurt as much. Fingers dug under the edge of the bone and Clint had to grit his teeth again until the kink softened.  “Now ...” Right thumb still knuckle-deep in the muscle, Coulson slipped his left hand around Clint’s neck and tilted his head. Two of Coulson’s fingers were pressed on Clint’s cheek, the others along the curve of his neck, holding him as Coulson searched for the right angle.

“Oh,” Clint breathed out, the moan coming from the back of his throat, a sound that was just this side of sexual. The tautness of muscle was like a rubber band stretched to breaking; the heated tendrils from Coulson’s fingers were reminders of Clint’s own needs, long neglected.

“Almost got it,” Coulson murmured, tilting Clint’s head back and to the right and leaning into the pressure, using his body weight to get deeper. “Somewhere right about …”

Clint’s gasp was sudden and the release swift. The band snapped back, knot melting away. His cock jumped as he opened his eyes to find Coulson’s face not that far from his. There was no mistaking the sudden dilation of Coulson’s pupils, the way his fingers clenched against Clint’s skin. The moment spun out then Coulson pulled back, breaking the contact.

Clint stayed still as Coulson picked up the towel hanging on the oven handle and wiped his hands. With an economy of movements, Coulson rolled down his sleeves and picked up one of the warming patches from the drug store.

“These things last for a good 8 hours. Take a couple pills and get a good night’s sleep; between the heat and the medicine, you should be good to go in the morning.” He placed the patch and ran his hand around the edges to seal it in place.

“There’s work to do,” Clint protested but he was off his game and he knew it. Something had just happened, unfinished and hanging between them. “Don’t we need to find out who the car belongs to and start working on the Stane connection?”

“Let us gather the information, and you can look at it first thing bright and early.” Coulson was donning his jacket, preparing to go, and Clint knew the moment was past. “Hit it from a fresh perspective.”

“Okay,” Clint agreed because Coulson had made up his mind and letting the man retreat seemed the best course of action. “8 a.m. sharp. Unless something else happens then text me. I’ll keep the phone on.”

“Sleep on your right side,” Coulson said. “Or your back.”

Clint nodded. “Will do, coach.”

That earned him a smile. “See that you do.” Then Coulson was gone, door shutting behind him.

His forehead dropped onto the back of the chair, and Clint groaned out loud. He’d handled that poorly from start to finish; last thing he needed was to let his neglected sex drive get the best of the situation. He wanted to not go back to jail and to track his brother down to ground, not get involved with a fed who had blue eyes, strong hands, and a sense of humor. 

A tap on the door and Natasha let herself in, strolling across to the kitchenette. “I saw the Suit leave,” she said, pulling a bottle of red wine out of its small nook on the wall. “He seemed distracted.” She opened the correct drawer and deftly used the corkscrew to open it. “Now I find you half dressed, smelling like a massage parlor, looking like a puppy that’s just been kicked.” Two glasses from the cabinet, she poured the cabernet, rich red filling the bowl halfway. “And I bet, if I cared to look, you’re sporting a hard-on for a certain competent government agent.”

Clint took the glass she held out, sitting up so he could take a swig. Like everything Stark had, it was more than good, crisp with a hint of oak. “Here.” He caught the edge of his jacket and took a small black box out of the interior pocket. “Emma Frost’s contacts and call history.”  He tossed it to Natasha who caught it.

“Excellent.” She turned idly it between her fingers. “I’ll spend tonight going through it and have you a list of names by the morning. I know most of the players in the Russian art scene; let’s see who she’s been dealing with.”

“Look for any connection with Obadiah Stane’s flunkies,” Clint said. Her eyebrows rose at the name.

“Obie’s been a bad boy? That doesn’t surprise me. Man’s involved up to his beard in arms sales, some of them legal, some not so much.” Natasha’s eyes hardened as she spoke. “You ever heard of the Ten Rings? Word is, Stane’s the one supplying them with serious firepower.”

A knot formed in Clint’s gut. “I don’t like it, Nat. Someone is willing to kill to stop us from learning about those paintings.”

“People take their art seriously,” she replied. “You of all people should know that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the show, Peter Burke played baseball; I've gone with soccer for Phil here because of those delightful pics going around tumblr of Clark Gregg on the field. 
> 
> Far as I know, the Union Club doesn't have a cigar bar much less one called Bombay Gold. But the cigars mentioned are real as is the all male Union Club that's been around for a very long time.
> 
> The whole chapter got away from me and turned into two flirting scenarios. Oops. ;)


	6. A Beginning ...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things don't always end the way Phil wants them to ... but there's lots of doors left open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did say that I was thinking of this as a pilot for a series, right? Planting seeds and leaving doors open ... :))))

It was Rogers who picked him up the next morning; Jarvis wouldn’t let him in, so Clint met him at the gate, keeping surprise to a minimum when he saw the Dodge Charger waiting.

“Nice,” Clint said as he slid into the passenger seat. “How do you get out of the standard black sedan?”

“Cars were all assigned when I moved up here.” When Rogers smiled like that, he looked even younger and just slightly goofy. The kind of guy Clint would take out for a beer and shoot the breeze about the Mets chances this year. “Terrible, I know.”

“So what happened while I was sleeping?” Clint asked as they maneuvered through traffic. “Anything on the car?”

“Dead end. The car was stolen from a rental lot and abandoned in the packing district. But we hit pay dirt with Frost’s cell phone. Three calls – one just before the drive by and two after – to and from a number we traced to a pay phone. The Bodega down the street had security cameras; this morning we picked up two known guns-for-hire with rap sheets that include everything from armed robbery to assault and battery. They gave up Frost,” Rogers explained.

“Wow, that’s … convenient.” After what Clint had learned overnight, he sincerely doubted that Frost was the one who called in the hit on them. “What does Frost say?”

“Phil’s bringing her in for questioning right now.” Rogers shifted in his seat, cutting his eyes towards Clint. “About what you did last night. I have to say, I didn’t peg you as the kind to make the sacrifice play. But Phil’s one of the good guys and you saved his life.”

“Yeah, don’t give me that much credit.” Clint had lain awake in the wee hours of the morning thinking about just how close those bullets had been – among other things. “Honestly, I was thinking ‘get down, get down, get down’ to cover my ass.”

“Well, you took Phil with you, so that says something.” Rogers turned a corner. “Your coffee’s in the cup holder.”

The cup was still warm; Rogers had dumped both a creamer and some sugar packets in the second holder. Clint doctored up the simple Café Americano and sipped as they drove.

“So.” Rogers blushed even before he brought up the topic. “You’re good at talking to women, right?”

“You want to ask Sharon Carter out?” Clint hid his grin behind his coffee. “I don’t see a problem; outside of the fed thing, you’ve got a lot going for you. In an All-American boy scout way that women like.”

“Um, thanks, I think.” The man couldn’t even talk to Clint about it; it was sweet and made Rogers even more handsome. Sharon didn’t stand a chance. “It’s just … I was watching her. I heard her call her aunt and talk about an upcoming visit. I know she has a cat named Peggy Lee and mainlines episodes of _Leverage_ when she’s stressed. She likes white wines from Oregon and has season tickets to the opera. That’s creepy by any account.”

“Not creepy. You were doing your job; she knows you’re a suit. In fact, you two hit it off, it will make a romantic story one day about how you were so smitten that you put her under surveillance.” Clint could make it work; he’d charm her out of caring about the invasion of privacy. Rogers was so sincere, she’d be hard pressed to not fall for his big blue eyes immediately. “Here’s what you do. When this case is over, show up at the gallery with a bottle of Kings Estate Pinot Gris and two tickets to a musical. Don’t pick a fancy restaurant; take her to a small, intimate Italian place, family run. She won’t be able to resist.”

They turned into the underground garage and Rogers parked the car in the space next to Coulson’s sedan. “They’re back,” Rogers said, all business again. “Phil wants you to play Clive Burton.”

“Throw Frost by dragging me in too. Makes sense.” Clint nodded as they got out and headed to the elevator. “She thinks this is about the Sishkin.”

“For the moment,” Rogers verified.

Every hair of Frost’s blonde head was in perfect place as she sat across from Coulson in the interrogation room. Long legs crossed, pale and smooth from the edge of her short brown leather skirt to her mile high pumps. Her foot jiggled ever so slightly, but her brow was smooth and her expression oh so completely bored.

“Ms. Frost, you are more than welcome to call your lawyer,” Coulson was saying. “We just have a few questions that won’t take long.”

Frost looked up as Clint sauntered past the window, following close on Rogers’ heels. He feigned surprise to see her and added a look at her legs for good measure. Checking her cleavage was too obvious, so he went back to her eyes and held them for a second before moving on.

“What is this about, Agent Coulson? I have a conference call at 10 that can’t be rescheduled.” Just a tinge of frustration colored her voice; she really was good at this.

“I’ll cut to the chase, Ms. Frost.  Yesterday evening, you called and contracted a hit on me and Mr. Burton. I assume that’s because you found out we know about the forgeries. Question is, where are the originals?” For such an unassuming  exterior, Coulson was damn good at this.

“You’re accusing me of trying to kill you?” That got to her. She uncrossed her legs but crossed her arms across her chest. “And what forgeries?”

“Johnson and Hamlin turned; we’ve got you dead to rights. That’s 10-20 years for attempted murder.” Coulson had boxed her in; now he’d offer her the deal and she’d take it to avoid that much prison time. “I’m willing to offer you a deal; you tell us where the original paintings went and we can plead down to say, reckless endangerment.”

She stilled. A shadow flickered in her eyes like a set of shutters closing, and Clint realized he’d completely misread this woman. Whatever role she was playing now, Emma Frost had darkness in her. She was just really good at hiding it.

“I’ll take my phone call now.” And she wouldn’t say anything else.

* * *

 

“She’s not going to talk.” Phil shut the file and sighed. “I didn’t cotton her to take the fall. She likes her life too much. She’s scared and I don’t think much frightens her.”

The morning had brought a flood of high powered lawyers from Stark Industries; Frost hadn’t opened her mouth again, letting the four old white men in suits speak for her. They were already picking the case to shreds, casting doubt on every detail. The District Attorney assigned to the case was already folding; Frost would probably end up with a lesser charge and a few years in minimum security for her trouble. Phil hated when cases went like this; he knew she was into the forgery scheme up to her long neck, but he felt this one slipping between his fingers.

“Have you had anything but coffee today?” Barton lounged in the doorway, looking none-the-worse-for-wear despite being shot at last night. Not for the first time, Phil wondered if he’d imagined Barton’s response to Phil’s touch or if Barton had been faking. He didn’t think so, but then Barton was the best covering his emotions. “Come on, let’s go get some lunch. You need out of this office.”

He started to argue; there was plenty of paperwork to complete and he did his best wallowing in self-pity right there in his chair. Then he really looked at Barton; relaxed arms across the brown gabardine jacket, hat tilted back at a rakish angle, ankle with the tracker crossed over the over, all belied by steely blue-grey eyes with a hint of shadow.  Phil had been too busy to have a conversation with Barton, and to be honest, he was halfway avoiding the man, worried about knowing smiles and awkward pauses. He looked back down at his desk, covered in pictures and charts and forms and made his decision.

“I could use a hot dog from the cart out front,” he acquiesced, standing up and taking his jacket off the back of the chair.

“Yeah, no. Jasper told me about a good place just around the corner.” Barton waited until Phil slipped his jacket on and led the way out the door.

“Jasper’s a serious foodie. Place is probably super expensive and gives you tiny squares on a big white plate. I’m more of an aluminum foil kind of guy.” Just the ease of the banter lifted Phil’s spirits, shaking off some of the gloom of a case that took a wrong turn. He punched the elevator call button.

“Hey, bring back something for us,” Maria called from her place behind a stack of files.

Steve gave them his best pizza face. “Anything. I’m about to eat my own pencil,” he begged.

“I’ll bring you a hot dog,” Phil promised them as the doors opened.

“Come on, Barton. I know you’ll go for something better,” Maria said, grinning as they got in the car.

“You’re already spoiling them,” Phil groused for good measure and pushed the lobby button.

“Good food is good food, Coulson,” Barton said with a smug smile. “Once you get a taste of the finer things … enjoy your office sludge this morning?”

The coffee this morning hadn’t been in the same ballpark as the stuff Barton had brought him, but Phil wasn’t going to let him know that. “Did its job and woke me up.”

They passed the reception desk and security check in, turning left out of the revolving doors and onto the crowded sidewalk. People seemed to part for Barton and he smiled at random faces as he passed. Phil, on the other hand, kept side stepping sidewalk hogs who didn’t look up from their cell phones.  Crossing two busy streets, Barton turned into a side alley and took a set of stairs down to a red door. Inside was a small entryway, old cracked linoleum under their feet and hanging bead curtains across the doorway into what could only be termed a hole-in-the-wall. A young Asian woman was the hostess; she smiled when Barton asked for a place near the bar and showed them to tall bar stools at a tiny table beside a glass counter filled with fresh fish.

“A sushi bar?’ Phil asked, eyeing the number of people crammed into the small space.

“Not a fan?” Barton’s grin was wicked as if he expected Phil to bow out of the experience.

“I don’t do eel, and the spicier the better.” With a glance at the one sheet of paper inside the plastic sleeve, Phil went on. “Sashimi’s good, but let’s get some of the handmade maki rolls. They’ve got fresh Ahi today.”

Barton’s laugh went right into Phil’s chest, warming him from the inside out. “Okay, you win that round,” Clint conceded. “Do you mind if I order for us both? I want to see if they’ll make a special roll I like.”

With an incline of his head, Phil let Barton take the lead. As the waiter approached, Barton spoke in flawless Japanese and the older man smiled and nodded in reply. Barton pointed at a few items then asked Phil what he wanted to drink before finishing.

“I shouldn’t be surprised,” Phil said as the waiter left. “Russian, Japanese … what other languages do you speak?”

“My Spanish is fluent, and I get by in French, Italian and German. I know enough Mandarin, Farsi and Arabic to know when to run.” The waiter brought a Sapporo for Barton and a pot of hot tea for Phil. “I can order food in a handful more. Once you learn the basics in a romance language, you can muddle through in the others.”

Bowls of hot soup appeared; thick hunks of tofu floated with mushrooms and bean sprouts in dark broth.  “I suppose that makes wining and dining a mark easier,” Phil replied after a couple spoonfuls. “Impress them with your knowledge.”

“Thus why I went to sommelier school and took classes at the Cordon Bleu,” Barton said. “That and I like wine and enjoy cooking. It’s not mutually exclusive, you know. My interests and my skills.”

Seconds before he finished the bowl, a long rectangle of wood appeared in front of him with three maki rolls. “Okay, I give. What’s in here?”

Pointing at them one at a time, Barton explained. “Mexican – fresh jalapenos, tobiko, spicy shrimp and crab, topped with a spicy mayo. Hawaiian –lettuce, mango, coconut, shrimp, spicy tuna with miso chili paste. And my personal favorite, a crouching tiger – ahi tuna, snow crab, avocado, spicy mayo, ponzu sauce, scallions and wasabi paste. It’s got a kick.”

The fact Phil hadn’t seen any of those on the menu meant Barton had ordered them specifically, so he took his first bite carefully. Flavor exploded on his tongue and he sighed out loud. The sauce was spicy, but it built like a slow burn in the back of his throat with the perfect urgency.

“Jasper was right. This is good.” Phil waited until he had another bite before hitting the subject head on. “So, what do you want to tell me that couldn’t be said in the office?”

Barton paused to wipe a bit of sauce off the corner of his mouth with his thumb, sucking it off before wiping his hand on his napkin. “I called a European contact this morning; had this brilliant idea to ask about collectors buying 19th Century Russian art. Probably against the rules of my release, technically, but he’s an above board dealer who just happens to have his ear to the ground.”

“You’re right; you’re not supposed to be in contact with any of your old associates.” Phil kept eating as he talked. “Unless I give you approval, of course. So, what did he say?”

“No one seems to know the paintings weren’t in the museum for one. Not even the black market, and they tend to know when something’s been relocated.” Barton seemed to gather his thoughts, as if he was decided just what to say, a fact that was preposterous. Words were Barton’s life; he always had a line prepared. If he was letting Phil see his indecision, he wanted Phil to see it. “Frost’s generally seen as an opportunist who will skirt the law if need be, but Stane’s name registered zero on the interest scale for stolen art.”

“So whose name did come up? Get me a list and we’ll start a file. Maria can hit Interpol and Steve can cross into the Homeland Security and ...” Phil stopped, thinking about it. 

“That’s the thing. He didn’t know of anyone. It’s like the paintings just disappeared. Maybe they’re boxed up in a warehouse somewhere.” Clint finished his last roll and waved the waiter over, ordering again in a swift patter of sounds.

“Like the Ark of the Covenant from Indiana Jones?” The idea was silly enough that Phil’s laugh was a half-snort.

“You know the lawyers aren’t going to let you keep poking at this.” Barton was all business, the humor gone from his eyes. “Stane’s got powerful friends, senators, mayors, police commissioners.”

“If I let things like that stop me, I shouldn’t be doing this job.” Thing was, Barton was right. The writing was already on the wall. Emma Frost was going to prison and the whole affair was going to quietly disappear. Phil had been an agent long enough to know how this worked.

“It’s just …” Barton trailed off, taking the bill when it was presented and dropping some cash to cover it. For once, the cost was well within the small advance Barton was earning. “I can’t help you from prison, Phil.” He reached over, brushing Phil’s hand with the lightest touch.

“Well, it’s a good thing you’re not going back.” He tossed that information into the conversation. He’d talked to Fury earlier today and they’d both agreed.

Barton’s eyes opened wide; for the second time, Phil had caught him out. “Not going back?”

“We’ve got another case. Haliod Company bonds to the tune of $2 million.” He dangled the bait and watched as Barton jumped for it. “And we happen to have the best bond forger as a confidential informer.”

Sitting forward, all ears now, Barton was paying full attention.  “Can we get a look at them?”  

“Same deal. Tracer stays in play, you help us catch the criminals and you stay in that nice apartment.” Phil knew it was a day by day arrangement and so did Barton. The Bureau had him on a short lease; that was all the latitude Fury could manage.

“As long as I get quality sushi for lunch, I’m not complaining,” Barton said as he slipped his hand through the handles of the take out bag.

* * *

 

 “You were right about him working with me. I owe you a chili dog, but this will have to do.” Phil sat the white Styrofoam container down on Fury’s desk; beyond the glass, Barton was joking down in the bull pen as Maria and Steve ate their lunch. “ How did you know he’d be interested?”

“Barton’s a cypher; he’s whatever he has to be to complete the con.”  Fury spun about in his chair and popped open the lid. “I can’t imagine he trusts more than one or two people, and even then I doubt he lets them see the real Clint Barton. You, my old friend, are probably the only person who knows him as well as you do.”

“What, he wants to be my buddy or something?” Phil didn’t buy that.

“Hell, I don’t know, Cheese. I’m not a psychiatrist.” Fury grimaced then scooped up a piece of a spicy tuna roll with his fingers. “But he’s not playing along for free, that’s for sure.”

“He knows something.” Phil glanced at Barton sitting on Maria’s desk. “Or suspects.”

“Stane?”Fury asked.

“Whatever it is he’s playing it close to the vest.” Phil could still feel the phantom touch on the back of his hand.

“The blue or the grey one?” Fury laughed. “Man does know a good suit. Even more reason to keep him close.  We both know this case stinks to high heaven.”

“Agreed. And if he raises our closure rate, well …” Phil knew his boss and what made him tick.

“Damn straight,” Fury agreed. “Listen, Phil. You’re a grown ass man who can handle himself and you know Barton’s M.O. inside and out. But you can be pretty stupid when it comes to a nice piece of ass.”

“Hey,” Phil protested. “I was in college and it was one time. I’m not going to fall for Barton’s charm.”

“Oh, hell, Phil, you’ve been obsessed with the man for years. Sell that line to someone who doesn’t know you as well as I do. Don’t let him get to you.”

“Jesus, Nick. Does everyone think I’m going to just fold?” He intentionally didn’t think about hands on smooth skin or blue-grey eyes looking sideways at him.

“Betting pools running around three weeks before you have your first fight,” Fury grinned. “Personally, I went for two months, so see if you can work that out for me. I need to take the wife out for our anniversary.”

Phil was done with this topic of conversation, so he changed it. “The Frost case?”

Fury sobered. “Already had a call from the District Director. Thank you for your work, this is now an international search, we’ll take it from here. Damn politics.”

“So you want me to drop it?”

“I want you to go to work on the bond case and solve it,” Fury said. “And keep your ear to the ground about missing Russian art. But quietly.”

“Can do, boss.”

* * *

 

“You leaving?” Clint asked. Natasha’s pack was on the sofa; she came out of the hallway, a black felt hat perched on her head, wearing a pinstripe shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a black vest. 

“I hear there’s a stash of Russian paintings somewhere,” she said with a smile. “Thought I might visit my old friend in St. Petersburg to chat. You don’t mind, do you?”

“Nah, looks good on you. I doubt Tony will notice.” Clint was sure Tony wouldn’t care. The layers of dust in the closet spoke of years of neglect. “Nat, be careful. If Stane’s mixed up with the kinds of people who buy heavy weaponry …”

“You know I can handle myself.” She kissed him on both cheeks, her hands on his arms, and then she hugged him.

 “The fact that Bucky Barnes is in town has nothing to do with your hasty departure?” Clint asked.

“Is James in New York?” Natasha feigned innocence. “Well, it’s for the best. You know what happened the last time the three of us were in the same city. Besides, if he’s here, he’ll be out of my hair.”

There was no talking Natasha Romanov out of plans once she made up her mind. Only thing Clint could do was offer support. “If you need help …” he started.

“You are stuck here with your handsome federal agent.” She winked at him. “Try to have some fun. And you call me if something big falls in your lap. Like that gorgeous Ming vase downstairs in the study. ”

“No stealing from Tony. I live here; I’d be the first and only suspect.” He didn’t think she was serious. Maybe. "And he’s not my federal agent.”

“Oh, yes he is,” she laughed. “He just doesn’t know it yet. Now go change and see about those bonds.”

“You scare me sometimes, you know that?” He asked for the millionth time.

* * *

 

“Oh, Clint! I want to introduce you to someone,” Tony called as Clint clattered back down the stairs.

“Of course,” he replied, detouring into the posh living room. The four paintings in the room were worth a cool five hundred thousand at least. Clint’s palms itched just being near them.

Tony was standing beside an older man, salt and pepper close cropped hair and beard, fine tailored suit. Obadiah Stane turned his steely eyes on Clint and a lesser man would have melted under the gaze. He took in Clint from head-to-toe and even the veneer of civility couldn’t hide his disdain.

“Obie, Clint. Clint, Obie. Clint’s just out of jail for … art thief? Or was it forgery?” Tony’s voice was slightly slurred, a half-full carafe of scotch sitting on the end table. “Anyway, Clint’s renting part of the house. Big old drafty thing. Nice to have company.”

“Mr …” Stane tilted his head and waited for Clint to fill in the blank.

“Clint’s fine. Tony and I don’t stand on decorum.” He didn’t offer his hand and Stane didn’t either. “I’m very grateful for Tony’s largesse. It’s difficult to get a second chance.”

“That’s Tony for you. Generous to a fault.”

Tension bled from Tony, his eyes narrowed and fingers tight on his glass. Stane oozed confidence but the blunt nails and lines on his face told a different story. Clint fought the urge to step back and take himself out of the equation. Instead, he eased between the two, absently touching Tony’s arm while facing Stane more fully.

“And I’m very grateful for it,” he said.

“Excuse me Mr. Barton, but your ride is here.” Jarvis interrupted.  Tony took that as a sign and sat his glass down with a thump.

“Is that Coulson out there? I need to go say hello from Pepper. She’ll kill me if I forget. I’m supposed to give him a hug.” Tony’s Cheshire cat grin widened. “Nice to see you, Obie. We can finish this later, right?”

“Tony, you really need …” Stane was saying, but Tony grabbed Clint’s elbow and ushered him out of the room into the main foyer.

“Can’t stay, gotta go. Clint’s job is important; don’t want to keep him from it.” Tony kept walking, Stane following towards the door.

“And what do you do Mr. Barton?” Stane asked, looking out at the sedan waiting in the driveway.

“Consulting,” Clint answered before Tony could open his mouth.  “It’s part-time right now, but it makes my parole officer happy.”

Coulson was standing by the driver’s side when Clint made it down the stairs. Tony hurried around the front of the car. “Coulson! Pepper said to say thank you next time I saw you. And to give you this.” Tony threw his arms around Coulson; Clint bit his lip and didn’t bother to hide his amusement as Coulson looked to him for help. “Obadiah was just leaving, weren’t you Obie? Maybe you can give him a ride.”

“Later Tony.” Stane’s car pulled up complete with a chauffeur. “We have to discuss this.”

“Of course. Later!” Tony waved. “Thank God,” he said when Stane was in his car. “I thought I’d never get rid of him. Board business this, grow up that … Obie’s a buzz kill. Hey, you want a drink to celebrate Frosty’s going to prison? That deserves a martini.”

“Actually, we’re on another case,” Clint said. Phil glared at him. “We’ve got to go. Maybe when we get back?”

“Ah, the dynamic duo is already at work again! I’ll expect details,” Tony said.

“You know you can’t talk about cases with Stark, right?” Coulson said as he started the car and followed Stane out of the gate.

“Man’s a genius,” Clint argued. “Did you know he has two robots he built when he was in his teens? They’re like his kids.”

“That’s nice, but sharing confidential information will get you thrown back in jail,” Coulson warned.

“Don’t worry. I know loose lips sink ships.” Clint tossed his hat on the dashboard. “Do we have time to get coffee before our appointment? I hear there’s a place that has an amazing cortado and olive oil cake. Maybe on the way back?”

Coulson rolled his eyes as he put the car in gear. "I'm pretty sure this is still a bad idea," he said with a smile. "But let's go catch some bad guys."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The relationship between Peter and his wife Elizabeth is one of the best portrayals of marriage on TV. Since I decided to go with single Phil, I wanted to pay homage to Elizabeth in some way, so I put Sharon in her place. On White Collar, Peter meets Elizabeth while the art gallery she works for is under surveillance, just like Steve and Sharon :)))
> 
> Obviously, this isn't the end. There's so many threads to pull. Obadiah as the big bad guy for the season, Natasha's past with Bucky, Clint's past with Bucky, and Maria's love of onions. An Alex Hunter character is poised in the wings to show up, plus Bruce needs a bigger role and where's Thor? And you don't think Tony's going to sit quietly by either. 
> 
> No clue on time line for the next one. I'm knee deep in the third Bonds Of Old story (Phil/Clint in a medieval epic fantasy with magic and monsters and lots of sex in chainmail). But there will be more, I promise. I have two plotted out in my head.


End file.
